


in the summer, as the lilacs bloom

by Tate



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Sam's written a play and Sansa is determined to stage it professionally using a bunch of amateurs, The Night's Watch as stagehands because the pun on taking the black is hilarious, Theatre Company AU, more tags added as this progresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-01-29 07:53:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 30,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12626490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tate/pseuds/Tate
Summary: “You did tech in high school,” Sansa points out.(Yeah, I did tech because you were playing the lead and I was in love with you.)Jon doesn’t tell her that, though. Of course not. Instead he agrees to spend his summer stage managing this passion project of hers, and some trace of his seventeen-year-old self has dried out his throat at the thought of three months’ constant contact with Sansa.





	1. prologue

**i. Prologue**

The idea is born one morning over the Christmas holidays, around the dining room table in the Stark family home.

         Their parents have already left for work, with Bran and Rickon bound for their last day of the school term. Sansa’s at the head of the table, Arya further down, with both her feet up on the polished wood surface, which would have been ammunition for Sansa when the girls were younger but of which neither girl will inform Catelyn now. Robb is noncommittally en route to the adjoining kitchen, freshly showered after a morning gym visit, in search of something that isn’t a protein shake.

         It’s been a while since they’ve all been back home, but the holidays have facilitated it: Sansa and Robb are on break from university – studying Politics-and-Fashion-Design and Commerce respectively – and Arya’s up from her elite gymnastics training school, which keeps her busy most days, and which she alternates with fencing when she’s got a moment spare. (She seems to manage this far more casually than any other prospective double-Olympian would, but, beyond inquiring after her well-being, no one is concerned about it.)

         “Sam Tarly’s finished his play,” Robb says absently, foregoing the kitchen and pinching a slice of Arya’s multigrain toast instead. He dodges a punch, and catches Sansa’s eye, miscalculating what he finds there. “Y’know, Jon’s friend? Fit brother?”

         “I know who Sam is,” Sansa tells him.

         Sam’s family had vague business connections to Joffrey’s relatives, and he had been one of the few who always made an effort to converse with Sansa at whatever glitzy event the Court was holding in any given week. The memories ache like a too-familiar weight on her windpipe, but Sansa pushes them down and moves on.

         “I’m happy he’s got his play done. Is he looking for a company to stage it?”

         Robb shrugs, nonchalant, and swallows a bite of toast. “Not sure. You know how hard it is to get a start down south, though.”

         “Aren’t the Tarlys in with the Lannisters?” Arya raises brashly, and all three of them glare in unison at the name. “If he was willing to sell his soul, I bet the Court’d put it on.”

         Sansa shakes her head, ignoring the way her siblings are looking at her – like she’s a vase that might crack at the first mention of her ex-boyfriend. “I think the Tarlys are more resource sponsors than anything else. I don’t know if Sam would benefit from nepotism, not with what I’ve gathered about his family.”

         Robb settles himself back down between his sisters, seemingly content with his stolen slice of toast. “Bully for him, then. Jon’s read the script and wouldn’t stop talking about it – and you know what Jon’s like.”

         “A man of few words,” Arya agrees. She bites into her remaining breakfast, chews thoughtfully, and swallows. “Sam should take it to some rival company – say _fuck you_ to his family and the Court and work independently, with people who’ll be determined to make it successful.”

         Arya’s statement is simple enough, but it strikes Sansa like a match.

         Her mind sparks an idea as bright as Tully hair against summer sun. She decides she wants to help Sam. (And, on a more selfish level, she decides that she wants to prove to the Court that the design internship she lost when she broke up with Joffrey doesn’t mean she’s incapable of excelling somewhere else.)

         The choice is made before she opens her mouth and speaks.

         “What are you two doing over summer?”

*

It’s seven o’clock at night and Jon can see his breath with every exhalation.

         Edd should be back any minute with their takeaways, and Gendry’s picking up beers on his way home from work, but Jon’s more focused on the frost on the windows than anything else. He heads down the narrow hallway to his bedroom and pulls on the first woolly jumper he spots upon opening his closet door.

         As he deposits the hanger back onto the railing, something drops from the over-filled box on the shelf at the top of the closet and lands directly on his face. Closer inspection informs Jon that, thankfully, it is not a sentient creature, but rather a glove. A black and grey woollen glove knitted by Robb’s-sister-Sansa as a gift when he moved to away for university. Jon spots its counterpart teetering on the edge of the box, and he reaches up to grab it.

         The gloves had been part of a matching pair with Robb, but as far as Jon knew, Robb had never worn his except when he knew he’d be seeing his sister. Jon, knowing for certain he will _not_ be seeing Robb’s-sister-Sansa, quickly pulls the gloves on – if only to save himself from gangrene.

         The broken heating, of late, is more confronting than ever. As the only one of them who works a trade – Edd’s in border patrol and customs at Heathrow, and Jon’s a law student – Gendry expressed firm belief he was capable of fixing it. For all the faith Jon has in his friend, it’s been three weeks and he’s had no luck repairing the circuit board. Jon is _this close_ to taking matters into his own hands, even if he has to take on extra shifts at his bar job to pay the sparkie.

         When he ventures back out into the main room, his phone is ringing, loud and clear. He expects Edd, saying the shop’s run out of lemon chicken, or Gendry, complaining about the liquor store upping its prices, but it’s a number he doesn’t recognise.

         Praying it’s not a telemarketer, Jon presses the button to answer the call. “Hullo?”

         “Jon? It’s – ”

         He knows the voice straight away, its rich, lyrical alto, always so surprising to hear speaking his name. He can’t say they were ever close, but he’d know her anywhere, and he certainly knows her now.

         Robb had given him her number when she moved to London – _if I’m not available, I’ve told her to call you_ – but it makes sense that she would’ve got a new SIM since then. Eighteen months and one disastrous relationship. Robb’s-sister-

         “Sansa. Hi.” He hesitates a moment. “How can I help you?”

         “Oh. Um.”

         Jon imagines her worrying her lip, the way she always does when she’s formulating the best way to proceed. He knows a remarkable amount about her habits for someone who’s never even been her friend.

         “Well,” she says, “I heard Sam finished his play, and I wanted to give him a call, but I don’t have his number, so I thought I could get it off you?”

         “Oh. Yeah – okay. I – ”

         “ – I could’ve texted you,” Sansa interjects, as though just realising this. “But – ”

         “ – No, this is – fine.” He puts the call on speaker and begins scrolling through his Contacts to find Sam. “Do you have a pen and paper handy?”

         “Uh-huh.”

         He recites the number twice, to make sure she’s got it, and then a silence arises which Jon is sure Sansa will cut off with a quick _thanks_ and a _goodbye_. He’s surprised when, instead, she continues conversationally: “Robb said you weren’t coming up this year.”

         “No, I – uh – I decided to spend the holidays with my aunt.”

         This is, of course, a complete lie. His aunt is overseas, and they’re more acquaintances than anything else – but his lie to Sansa sounds better than _I’d like to avoid being a burden_ , which, though true, is also depressing as hell. He doesn’t want her pitying him.

         “That’s fair,” comes Sansa’s response. Jon recognises it as default politeness. “The holidays are for family, after all.”

         He plays off his lie by agreeing with her, and then, after another moment of shared silence, adds, “Everybody missed you last Christmas.”

         _Last Christmas, when I was home and you weren’t._

         He had asked after her upon climbing into the passenger seat of Robb’s Land Rover, noticing first the absence of melodious bubblegum pop and then the absence of Sansa. _She’s spending Christmas with the Baratheons_ , Robb had said, his brow fogged over in bitterness, and Jon had wondered why Sansa, whose relationship with Joffrey was still relatively recent, would be passing up Christmas at the Starks’ in favour of the lions’ den.

         The drive north was quiet, and – with the exception of Arya’s outbursts, Robb’s laughter, and whichever Christmas carol Rickon chose to shout at the top of his lungs – so was Christmas.

         Jon has always felt like Catelyn never quite warmed to him, but with his and Theon’s constant presence in the already full-to-bursting Stark household, he puts it down to frustration at Ned’s habit of picking up strays, and Robb’s subsequent habit of feeding and watering them. She has never been unkind, Jon is quick to note – just restrained.

         It was particularly noticeable without Catelyn’s oldest daughter around; without Sansa spouting some story or other, about a Politics paper she was taking this semester or which concept she’d just thought up for some new design project. Jon sat staring at Sansa’s empty seat all through the festivities, thinking what a sullen, grey substitute he must have been. He had almost wanted to apologise, but Robb would’ve punched him, and Ned would have found a way to feel guilty about letting Jon feel unwelcome – which only made Jon feel worse.

         He shakes himself out of the memory as Sansa’s voice chimes down the phone.

         “I wish I’d been home,” she says.

         He wants to offer his sympathy, wants to say that he knows about Joffrey and wishes she hadn’t had to go through that, but the last thing Sansa needs is airy promises that don’t change anything.

         There’s a shout on her end and the sound of glass breaking. Jon makes out a _Say it was Bran’s wheelchair!_ , which makes him chuckle. Life up north never changes.

         “It’s business as usual,” Sansa jokes.

         “Well, I’ll let you get back to it. Happy Holidays, Sansa.”

         “Happy Holidays, Jon. Thanks for Sam’s number.”

         “No problem.”

         “Bye.”

         “Bye.”

         He hangs up, or she does, and maybe the gloves are magic, because Jon’s frostbitten flat feels a little warmer.

*

Sansa knows her plan is somewhat implausible.

         Thinking she could collect a bunch of her friends and family, all of whom – though multitalented – are completely lacking in professional theatre experience, and somehow stage a top calibre production of a play nobody’s ever seen, much less heard of… well, as plans go, it’s not the most watertight one she’s ever had.

         (Then again, Sansa has never been known for her great plans. She’s been known for being pretty, or silly, or selfish, and while she’s some of those things she’s certainly not all of them any more.)

         For these reasons, she’s surprised, if not shocked, when Sam agrees to production without batting an eyelid.

         “Are you sure?” she repeats down the phone, hoping that the blood pounding in her ears hasn’t mean she’s misheard him.

         “Oh, completely. I think it’s a lovely idea, if you can manage it, Sansa – if you can get everybody on board.”

         She’s told him that she wants to contact the Tyrells – Loras has been in a few of her Politics classes, and Highgarden Theatre is a truly glorious venue if you can get into it. She’s glad to have struck up a friendship with him, and with his sister, Margaery, who had been close enough to the Court professionally to look out for Sansa during her internship. If Sansa could get Margaery to produce Sam’s play, they had a shot. (Plus, if Loras’s boyfriend Renly was willing to get involved, Sansa imagined he would love to empty some of his Baratheon pockets into a theatre production that would allow him out of his family’s Court-sized shadow.)

         Sam’s informed her of the play’s basic premise, and will be sending her through a copy of the script as soon as they’re off the phone. Sansa already knows she’ll have the time of her life doing production design for it. She’s got costumes in her head, and set pieces – all the way down to lighting. It’s ambitious, but that doesn’t deter her. She’s spent too long letting people tell her ambition was poisonous, too long letting them hold her under their thumbs using the pretence that they were wings.

         She’ll get Robb and Arya to handle combat training and to choreograph the battle scenes, if they can’t get professionals; Robb’s done enough research into military history to have the accuracy down, and he was dragged into playing the leading man enough times throughout high school that he’s not unfamiliar with theatre, even if half the time he showed up to rehearsals muddy from the rugby field. And Arya’s got finesse: she’ll turn the big sequences into fluid routines, like dances, carried off with fake blood and fake consequences.

         “I’m going to do my best, Sam,” she tells him. “I promise.”

         “I believe it, Sansa.”

         Something tells her he won’t believe it until she’s proven it, so that’s what she intends to do.

*

It’s in the middle of the lull between Christmas and New Year that Jon catches up with Sam. He opens the door with an apology for the lack of fixed heating (“Give me another week, I swear – everyone’s closed for the holidays, anyway,” Gendry had said, hammer in hand.).

         De-hammered and unsuccessful, Gendry offers Sam a cup of tea as Jon closes the door behind him.

         “Yes, please, Gendry.”

         Jon settles down on the couch next to Edd, who grabs the remote to pause _Four Weddings and a Funeral_. A perfectly poised Kristin Scott Thomas seems to have her gaze on Gendry as he hands Sam his mug.

         “I had a call from Sansa Stark the other day,” Sam says, sitting down in the discount leather armchair arbitrarily separating the kitchen table from the living room.

         “One of Robb’s sisters?” Edd asks of Jon, who nods.

         “I gave her your number,” he says to Sam, taking the cup of tea that Gendry has brought him and handing Edd’s over to his friend. “She wanted to talk about your play?”

         Sam seems unable to suppress a grin. “She wanted to do more than _talk_ about it. She wanted to put it on!”

         Gendry sets himself down on the floor to Edd’s left, facing Sam and completing the group’s relative semicircle formation in front of the tiny TV. Sam makes to apologise for taking the chair, but Gendry insists _nah, I’m good, mate, no worries_ as Edd says, “Blimey – how’s she doing that? I thought she was a student, not some West End whatsit.”

         “Not with the Court,” Jon says to Sam, “surely.”

         “No,” Sam tells him soberly, “definitely not the Court. Not after – _well_. She’s talking to the Tyrells about it.”

         “Oh. They’re Highgarden, right?”

         Gendry makes a joke about growing marijuana in central London, which Edd barks out a laugh at and which Sam and Jon ignore – Sam because he’s too busy discussing Sansa’s plans, and Jon because he's too busy listening to notice.

*

Sansa’s meeting with Margaery is largely a success.

         There’s one major hitch, but Sansa’s spur of the moment passion project has run far too smoothly thus far, so at this point she had almost expected it.

         It comes about twenty-five minutes in, once they’ve talked a few of the logistics and discussed the finer points of the script, when Sansa’s got nothing but golden yellow crumbs on her plate and Margaery’s down to the dregs of her rose and elderflower tea.

         “We love the script, we do – we think it’s excellent, Sansa, and your friend Sam can be very proud – ”

         “ – I’ll tell him so – ”

         “I’ve chatted to my grandmother about it,” Margaery says, sipping her tea. “There’s nothing scheduled in the theatre over July, so you can run for a month – which, as you know, my dear, is practically unheard of with this time frame.”

         Sansa beams. She’s sure she would kiss Margaery if it weren’t for professional decorum.

         “ _However_ ,” the girl says, and Sansa wonders if she’ll still feel like kissing her after what bad news is inevitably following, “my grandmother’s got our company crew touring with her production of _The Purple Wedding_ from June until October.”

         “…Right.”

         Margaery leans closer to Sansa. “You’ll have me, and I’ll ensure that you can have Loras’s enthusiasm and Renly’s pockets. I’ll produce it, or act as production manager, whatever you want – and you’ll have funding, and a venue that any company would for. But the flip of that is no SMs, no techies, no stagehands. Those you’ll have to find yourself.” After a moment, Margaery adds, “Actually, I think Brienne’s sending her assistant on the _Wedding_ tour, so you’ll have a prop master, at least.”

         Sansa nods, her mind working a mile a minute. That’s a blow, but she’d thought about using Robb and Arya anyway – she’d _wanted_ them. This is fine. This is workable. She’ll figure it out. She’s got to. For Sam – and for herself.

         She’s doing this – to prove she can – to prove she’s more than the Court. More than somebody’s _-and-Sansa_.

         So she’ll do it. Even if it kills her.

         “Margaery, if you can get me the green light on this, I’ll handle everything else.”

         There’s something in Margaery’s eyes then, something like pride and something like sadness. “Yes, sweet girl, I can do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise it'll get more exciting now that we've got the heavier exposition out of the way!!
> 
> @nedsnark on tumblr if ya want


	2. when you walked into the room just then (it's like the sun came out)

**ii. when you walked into the room just then (it’s like the sun came out)**

Sansa spends every spare moment of the next month in meetings with freelancers, new finds, and old friends. Whenever she’s not in class, she’s headed to Highgarden to see Margaery, or in some café awaiting a prospective technician, or a cue caller, or any other position that remains to be filled. Rehearsals need to start in March – at the latest – and she’s still looking for a stage manager, for a set builder, for a _director_.

         In spite of this rather glaring hole, Sansa’s trying to look at the positives:

         She’s called in Jeyne Poole, a fellow Design major, to be her costume assistant. It’ll be worthwhile having another seamstress who can get to the practical work of assembling the costumes after Sansa’s designed them and given the fabrics the go-ahead. Plus, Highgarden has been around for years, and their costume cupboard is _stocked_.

         Arya found a makeup artist in her fencing class, and, though Sansa still doesn’t know her first name, she trusts that the Waif – and her many-faced god of cosmetics – will be able to get the job done, be it battlefield or ballroom.

         And Brienne has been a godsend, already coming to Sansa with ideas about swords and shields, about each fictional house’s insignia and where it ought to be deposited around their camps and castles (even down to their cups). _I’ve been wanting to get my teeth stuck into a good battle epic for ages_ , the towering woman has said. Sansa’s grateful for it. Brienne has put in so much already, even with four show seasons between now and the opening of theirs.

         In the meantime, Margaery’s organised meetings with Sansa, Sam, and three potential directors, all of whom are professional and all of whom have either an affinity with Highgarden or a bone to pick with the Court.

         “Varys is… a character,” Margaery tells Sansa one afternoon.

         She’s just got in from her last class of the day, and with the heaters cranked full blast in Margaery’s office, she can feel herself beading with sweat despite the snow still only mid-thaw outside.

         “He directed _The Birds_ , right?”

         Margaery nods. “He’s got an interesting vision – and he’s worked with everyone, from up-and-comers to the Jaime Lannisters of the world.”

         “Well, the Jaime Lannisters are exactly who we’re trying to avoid,” Sansa mutters.

         “He’s hardly been at the Court since his accident,” Margaery points out. “He walked out on that production meeting with his sister.”

         Sansa nods, conceding. She hasn’t seen the man in months – last time she did he had been as handsome as ever, despite lacking in hands, some. The accidental pun almost makes her laugh, but the circumstances under which it arose sober her considerably.

         “How would you feel about his brother?” Margaery asks, pulling Sansa back to the present. “If you don’t want anything to do with any Lannister, I’ll tell Tyrion not to come in on the twenty-seventh.”

         Sansa softens at that.

         She’d never go so far as to say she actively liked Tyrion, but he had been a pleasant presence among predators at the Court. At big sponsorship events, he always drank too much, and he always snapped at Joffrey for talking over her, or down to her, or handling her too harshly. Once, when he was directing _Blackwater_ , he had come through to check on how her sewing was going. He had seen the bruises. Sansa didn’t think she’d ever forget how kindly he had looked at her then. He had sat with her, and apologised for his cretin of a nephew, even if they both knew apologies didn’t mean much. He had never critiqued her handiwork. He had always welcomed her ideas.

         _Don’t equate being treated with decency to being treated remarkably. Just because he didn’t hurt you doesn’t mean he kept you safe._

         “I’d like to meet with Tyrion,” Sansa tells Margaery. “I think Sam would, too.”

         “Great.” Margaery continues filing through her inbox, looking to relay relevant messages. Discovering the last one pertaining to directors, she informs Sansa. “Third option: Petyr Baelish. He does a lot of work with the Vale – directed that tragedy that started with a wife killing her husband and ended with her next husband murdering her? Did you see it? Loras waxed poetic about The Straights for weeks afterwards.”

         Sansa doesn’t know Petyr Baelish, beyond hearing his name in whispers at the Court. They seemed to tolerate him there, which could mean he was excellent or could mean he was noxious. They had seemed to tolerate _her_ , too, though. Sansa agrees to meet with him.

         Before she leaves, Margaery urges her to lock down a stage manager.

*

Arya’s perched on a stool and raiding the pantry when Sansa walks in the door. Giving her sister a once-over and springing down off the stool, she says, “You’re as much a vision as ever, Sans, but I think you’ve been working yourself into the ground with this play – and it hasn’t even started yet.” She rounds the kitchen bench and gives Sansa a loving pat on the arm. (Well, as loving as it gets for Arya.) “You need a night out.”

         Sansa opens her mouth to protest – firstly that she is perfectly fine, thank you, and secondly that she would much rather veg out in front of the telly with her _dear sister_ and a Richard Curtis film – but then she wonders if Arya’s right. She hasn’t gone out in ages, not even just for a drink with friends.

         (Does she _have_ friends anymore? She has a _working_ friendship with Margaery, and Arya – though her sister – is also her friend, and… oh, God, all of her friends are colleagues or relatives.)

         (She’d had friends before, at the Court, when she was with Joffrey, but they always felt more like allies, and they had all left her when she left him. Sansa was better on her own after that. She had needed the independence and she had relished in it.)

         (But, _oh, God_ , she’s got no friends.)

         She sighs. “Alright. I could do a night out.”

         Arya’s grin is positively _devious_.

         “Maybe just a bar, though. I couldn’t do a night club. I’d like to avoid unsolicited groping.”

         Arya gives a solemn nod, then pulls Sansa down the hall to her bedroom, dancing gleefully as she goes.

*

Jon’s about to start his Friday night shift at _Free Folk_ when he gets a text from Arya.

         _I’m dragging Sansa on a night out. Can we expect to see a certain dark-haired man bun behind the bar at Free Folk tonight?_

         Grinning, he texts back, _I think Satin’s moved on to cornrows, but I’ll check for you?_

         _You’re funny, Snow._

         Then, another text: _See you at 8. Stock up on limoncello._

         And another: _And supply preferably at least two available, attractive men._

         He laughs and slides his phone back into his pocket as Tormund bounds up beside him at the Guinness tap.

*

         As if from nowhere, at precisely eight o’clock, Arya appears on a bar stool. Immediately to her right is Robb’s-sister-Sansa.

         Granted, Arya is also technically Robb’s-sister-Arya, but she’s never had the mental moniker for Jon the same way Sansa has. Then again, Jon didn’t spend a year of his life with a debilitating crush on Robb’s-sister-Arya, and, y’know, that’s what does it.

         He remembers being seventeen, turning eighteen, when Sansa was fifteen, turning sixteen, and swinging by the Starks’ one afternoon when he’d thought Robb would be home and he wasn’t. It was just Sansa.

         (In all fairness, Arya was there, too, but by that point Arya had outgrown her habit of following Jon around in search of entertainment, and hadn’t quite grown into the habit of friendship with her sister.)

         Jon had always thought Sansa was radiant, in a very matter-of-fact way: like the sky was blue and fire engines were red (except Sansa’s eyes were also blue and her hair was also red, but a far nicer red than a fire engine). She had _always_ been radiant, and she had _always_ been across something of a distance. As far as he was concerned, she was someone to whom he was connected, through dots of Rob or Ned or even Arya, but she was not someone with whom he would ever connect. They operated on different planes of existence. (Hence _Robb's-sister-Sansa_ , rather than simply the girl herself.)

         But then it had just been her in the kitchen, flour dusting her front from where she hadn’t bothered – or, perhaps, hadn’t thought – to wear an apron, and he had paused in the doorway and they’d locked eyes, and she had said, “Hi, Jon. I’m guessing Robb didn’t tell you he was going to the cinema with Jeyne Westerling?” and it was the longest sentence he had ever heard her say, let alone say to him, and within fifteen minutes, they were sitting together at the kitchen table, eating lemon cakes before they cooled, and Sansa was both radiant _and_ immediate. It had all been different after that.

         Now in his fourth year of law school and much more practiced at being spoken to by Robb’s-sister-Sansa (who _really_ deserves to function as an independent being, now she’s here in front of him and more radiant than ever), Jon looks over the bar at the Stark girls. “I know that when you hear there’s a gay bar on this block, it seems like _Free Folk_ would be the right place, but _Redwyne’s_ is actually two doors down.”

         Arya rolls her eyes at the silly joke, as though they feed the stereotype of nominally-straight girls frequenting gay bars, but it gets a laugh out of Sansa.

         “You’ve never had a night at _Redwyne’s_ until you’ve been with Loras and Renly,” she replies, and Jon has no idea who either of them are, but he’s sure she’s right.

         “Right, Jon,” Arya begins, definitely meaning business, “I’m demanding some kind of limoncello cocktail for Sansa and I’ll take a pint of any beer that doesn’t taste like piss.”

*

At some point in the night, once the music’s got a bit louder and Sansa and Arya are both at least three drinks in, Jon looks up and his flatmates have arrived. He hadn't planned for this. In fact, he only realises because he hears Arya go _oi!_ and then hears a characteristically gruff Gendry apology – “whoops, didn’t see you down there, Thumbelina.”

         Arya splutters momentarily, then commences protesting his statement in her usual _fortissimo_. As she does so, Gendry turns to Jon and orders two pints.

         “ – and – wait, did you just call me _Thumbelina_? Who the fuck are you? Hans Christian Andersen?”

         Looking exasperated, Gendry turns to face her again, “Alright, alright, my foster sister reads, okay?”

         Jon hands him the two pints: Gendry sips one and sets the other down in front of Arya without missing a beat.

         As petulant as ever: “I’m Gendry.”

         Arya’s eyes dart from Gendry to the pint then back to Gendry. “I preferred Hans Christian Andersen.”

*

The revelation that Gendry and Edd are Jon’s flatmates goes down a treat. After both downing their pints, almost competitively, Arya and Gendry leave to play pool on the other side of the bar, at which point Edd seems to realise that the Sansa putting on Sam’s play is the same Sansa sitting beside him.

         “How did you manage to swing that?” he asks.

         The world of theatre is completely foreign to him, and Jon – down the bar making a margarita – is glad for his earnestness; Sansa’s smile reaches her sparkling blue eyes.

         “I haven’t managed to swing it quite yet,” she admits. “We don’t have a director or a stage manager yet, and we don’t have someone to handle the set carpentry or the actual construction element of it. And that’s without even beginning to worry about casting or who’s manning the fort backstage.”

         Edd nods. “Sounds like you’ve got your work cut out for you.” He shrugs. “I’d offer up the Customs department at Heathrow, but I’m afraid we’re all booked out for that lovey-dovey, Kenneth Branagh thing.”

         Sansa laughs. “Gatwick might be more promising, then?”

         “Nah, they’re novices.” He downs the last of his pint and says, “If I knew anyone, I’d send them your way, but I can’t say I’ve met many drama types in my time.”

         “Jon did tech for _Florian and Jonquil_ in his last year of high school,” Sansa tells him, just as Jon walks back down their end of the bar.

         “Oh, God, we’re not telling him about that, are we?”

         Edd’s eyebrows have practically met his hairline. “You didn’t tell me of your dark, theatrical past, Snow.”

         “Dark?” Jon nods at that. “Aye, you couldn’t see shit in those wings – half the time I was worried I was gonna drive a piece of the set into Sansa’s foot during her big solo.”

         He shoots her a glance and she’s grinning at him. He can’t help but grin back.

         “You loved it,” Sansa insists.

         _Well, no, I loved_ you _. There’s a difference._

         “It was alright,” he shrugs. She raises her eyebrows at him. “No, okay, fine, it was a lot of fun – and I liked that song you sang at the end of the first act. What I _didn’t_ need was being forced to watch you kiss that useless prick Hardyng all the time. Whatever you do,” he says seriously, leaning forward and looking Sansa in the eye, “do _not_ cast him in Sam’s play. You can’t ruin the script like that.”

         Edd snorts. “You’re talking like you could’ve done better, Snow.”

         Jon considers it. “I reckon I could’ve.”

         “What, at acting or at kissing?” Sansa asks.

         He tries to fix his gaze on the glass he’s polishing, but he can’t keep his eyes off Sansa’s. “Probably both.”

*

For a Friday night, it quietens down reasonably early, and once Jon is free enough that Edd isn’t Sansa’s only consistent company, the Customs agent excuses himself to go and break up a fight that Gendry and Arya have struck up over a game of darts.

         “They’re going to tear each other apart,” Jon says, casting a glance at the parties in question.

         “I don’t know,” Sansa replies, “I think, pretty soon, it might be us tearing apart the two of them.”

         His eyebrows shoot up.

         “Oh, come on,” she says, gesturing to where Edd has just collapsed into a chair in resignation and where Arya elbows Gendry away from her, a stupid grin plastered on her face all the while. “Match made in heaven.”

         She turns back to him, running her tongue absently over her parched lips. Almost without registering it, Jon fills a glass with ice and lemonade, lobs in a slice of the yellow citrus in, and the necessary straw, and sets it down in front of her. It’s Sansa’s turn to raise her eyebrows.

         “I _do_ consume things that aren’t lemon-flavoured, you know,” she jokes, taking a sip despite her feigned protestations.

         “I know,” says Jon, unable to keep from smiling at her, “but you’ve got to let me play into the stereotype when I’m giving you free drinks.”

         Her eyes go wide. “Don’t give me free drinks, Jon – couldn't you get fired for that?”

         “Technically, yes,” he admits, “but if I’m giving you a drink that I am entitled to as a tender of this specific bar, then, hey. You’re just lucky.”

         “Right.”

         There’s a moment of companionable silence, in which she sips and he polishes a glass or two, and then Jon says, “It’s a really great thing – what you’re doing for Sam.”

         Sansa stills. “It’ll be great if I can get it done,” she replies. “There’s so much I’ve got to sort out yet.”

         “Like what? I imagine the list’s exhaustive, but let me know a few specifics.”

         She sighs. “We’ve got meetings with directors lined up, but there’s no stage manager signed on, and because of that, there are no ASMs, and no backstage crew, and I don’t even know who’s going to build the set, and I just – ”

         “ – Hey, hey, hey…” He reaches out to place a hand on hers, then remembers Joffrey, and realises touching Sansa without warning probably isn’t helpful when she’s already somewhat stressed. His hand falls an inch or two short or hers, resting on the green bar mat. It gets her to look up and meet his eye, though. “If you want me to help out at all, give me tools, some material, and an afternoon. Robb’s already on board, and he’d help. I think Arya would love an excuse to get behind a power drill. Gendry never shuts up about smithing and construction, and Edd’s handy enough. We’d all be there for you, for Sam. Seriously.”

         The warmth has returned to Sansa’s face, and her shoulders seem to relax. “Thanks, Jon.” She’s regarding him softly – perhaps even fondly, but Jon thinks he’s imagining that bit – and she takes a sip of her lemonade, chewing her lip before she speaks again.

         “With that in mind, would you – um – would _you_ want to be an SM?”

         “Sadomasochist?”

         “Stage Manager,” she explains shortly, rolling her eyes at him and maybe faintly blushing. “And not _an_ SM, really – _the_ SM.”

         Jon gapes at her. “Are you sure you’re not drunk? You’ve had three cocktails. I’ve got no experience.”

         “You did tech in high school,” Sansa points out.

         _Yeah, I did tech because you were playing the lead and I was in love with you._

Jon doesn’t tell her that, though.

         Of course not.

         Instead he agrees to spend his summer stage managing this passion project of hers, and some trace of his seventeen-year-old self has dried out his throat at the thought of three months’ constant contact with Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick turnaround between the prologue and the first chapter! I warn you it may be relative radio silence for a couple of weeks as I'm on exams, but after that I shall be free as a bird and ready to write my little heart out. (Comments give me life in the meantime!)


	3. i watched it begin again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's longer than the previous two, and in my head it has two very strict, separate "acts", if you will – but I didn't want them as two separate chapters. (Apologies if it's disjointed as a result, but also, it's more than 25% over the usual length, so, let's focus on the positives!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it x

**iii. i watched it begin again**

Over the course of the next week, Sansa, Margaery, and Sam meet with each of the prospective directors.

            Tyrion is as much of a delight as Sansa can give him credit for –

            _I almost didn’t recognise you without a glass of wine_ , she says.

            _And I am glad to recognise you without my nephew_ , he replies.

            They both manage a smile and move on.

            Sam is wary of Varys, but this proves inconsequential – three days after the meeting, Margaery gets an email:

            “Varys has been hired by Red Women,” Sansa hears down the phone, her laptop open and a half-finished essay glaring back at her. “He’s not available anymore.”

            “Hm,” she responds first, chewing her lip. “We’ll meet with Baelish.”

            But when he walks into the meeting room the following Monday, she immediately wishes they had decided against it.

            There’s something about his practiced gait, his narrowed eyes, the thin line of his lip. He’s a man of affectation – talented enough at manipulating himself that he made an occupation of coaching others. He takes the seat across the table, facing Margaery, Sam, and Sansa, and her gut just about turns at the sight of him. Sansa’s learned to trust her gut.

            Margaery remains as composed as ever, with her lips pressed together in a firm impression of a smile as she stands to shake Petyr’s hand. Sansa does the same, out of professionalism and out of habit. She tries to assure herself that the up and down glance he levels at her is a cursory one, until he shakes Sam’s hand like there are better things to do and with every passing moment Sansa finds it harder and harder to like him. _He’s talented, though_ , she reminds herself. _You’re only put off because you know what he wants._

            Somebody may try to tell her later that she oughtn’t have felt this way about Petyr – not purely based on how he looked at her, or the fact he did so at all. But when Sansa finds in someone’s eyes what she first discovered in Joffrey’s, she thinks that watching the way a person looks at her is the best way of all to understand them.

            Five minutes in, Sansa wonders if there could have been any reason to have more people in this meeting. She would have liked to give Petyr a few more faces to look at, a few pairs of eyes to meet that aren’t hers. Like an answered prayer, Sam’s phone _dings_.

            He leans over to Sansa, muttering, “Jon’s outside. Shall I tell him to come in or is this” – he leans closer yet – “ _confidential?_ ”

            “No, Jon’s welcome,” she replies, the corners of her lips quirking up in a smile. (Jon’s welcome to sit in on any meeting he likes, after saving her arse and agreeing to stage manage.)

            Sam types a quick reply to Jon and Sansa leans back against the plush green cushion of her chair. Is all of Highgarden Theatre Co. so ostentatious, or is it just their meeting rooms? She notices another glance directed her way, despite it having no relevance to the spiel Sam is now giving about the plot of his play. Decidedly desperate, Sansa keeps her eyes on the door, awaiting the distraction of Jon’s arrival. With any luck, Petyr’s taste isn’t limited. And even so, it would probably only take one smile from Jon to make him reconsider.

            She’s absentmindedly recollecting the trip to _Free Folk_ , the one a few weeks ago, after which Arya’s phone started buzzing and hasn’t stopped since – the one where she sat at the bar for at least two hours after Edd left her, just chatting to Jon, watching him grin at something or other – and it’s then that Jon cracks the door open and enters the room.

            “Already dressed like an SM,” Margaery greets him liltingly, before Sansa can find her voice.

            Jon looks down at his black t-shirt and matching jeans. “Call it natural talent.”

            There’s a spare chair to Sam’s right, and Jon sets himself down there as Margaery explains his presence to Petyr. He mutters something to Sam, running a hand through his untamed curls. (Sansa realises with a jolt that her heart had sped up at the sight of them, because Jon at the bar with the man bun was handsome, too, but this is like seeing him back up north. It’s like high school and happy birthdays and _home_.) He catches Sansa’s eye and throws her a smile, too, a quick upward pull of his lips.

            Now, if she were Petyr, that would be enough.

*

About thirty minutes later, Petyr departs, and as soon as he’s out the door, Margaery practically deflates onto the stack of papers in front of her.

            “Sansa, love, I know I said this would be a diplomatic decision, but I’m using my grandmother’s authority to veto Slimy Pete.”

            “Oh, thank God.”

            Jon looks up at that, and Sansa meets his eye. “Why? Were you thinking differently?”

            “No,” he says immediately. “No, I wasn’t.”

            Sansa’s gaze flicks down to the hand flexing on his thigh, and then she turns to Sam. “If we’re not going with Petyr,” – this earns her a slight, determined shake of Sam’s head – “then that means choosing Tyrion. Is that alright with you?”

            He nods, ever genuine. “Sansa, I’m happy enough that this whole thing is _happening_ , let alone that you’re giving me a say. I would definitely choose Tyrion over Petyr, though,” he adds quickly. “Just saying.”

            “Lovely,” Margaery decrees. “I’ll get in touch with Tyrion.”

            She deposits her papers into her sleek YSL handbag – as only Margaery is wont to do – and then leans over to kiss Sansa’s hairline. “You’re doing so well, and I’m so glad to have you with me.”

            Standing, pulling her bag into the crook of her elbow, she sighs. “I’ve got to meet with Loras now about heavens know what for the spring programme.”

            With a wave to the three of them, she glides out the door, a final _thanks for coming in; don’t be a stranger, Jon Snow_ floating on the air as she goes.

*

“I’m dropping Sam home,” Jon tells Sansa, once they’ve traded the artificial warmth of Highgarden Theatre for the soft bite of the early spring breeze. It dances through her hair, catching and mirroring the sunset. _She should be the one onstage_ , Jon thinks. _Like she used to be. Except they don’t deserve her._ “Do you want a lift?”

            “Since when do you drive in London?” Sansa asks, perplexed.

            “Since my aunt became one of the largest investors in the city and bought a car park on every other block.”

            The three of them start off down the street in the direction of where Jon’s parked, and he adds, “She also got pretty mad at me when I wouldn’t let her buy me a car, and insisted on giving me one of her old ones ‘second-hand’.”

            Sansa’s eyes narrow. “Why do I get the feeling that you saying ‘second-hand’ in that tone implies she only drove it, like, once?”

            “Because you’d be right,” Jon says, causing Sam to chuckle as Jon hopes and prays that Sansa won’t judge him based on the absurdity of this situation.

            His aunt likes to feel needed, like she’s helping people; he can’t say no to her every single time. It’s a hard enough situation playing nephew to a woman his own age, let alone one whose circumstances are so vastly different to his own. Jon hates feeling like a charity case. Sometimes it feels like sheer luck he survived being practically raised by the Starks without developing a complex about it.

            Then again, when he glances at Sansa, with Sam’s script in her arms and the world at her feet, he thinks he might be kidding himself.

            “Are you going past the Crossroads?” she asks, obviously having caught him looking at her.

            “I can,” he replies. “Why?”

            “Arya’s friend’s just got a job as a chef in a restaurant there, so she and I are meeting at six to try it out.”

            “Yeah, that’s no worries.”

            Sansa beams at him. “Cheers, Jon. Now let’s go and find this fancy car of yours.”

*

The car, admittedly, fits Sansa’s description. From the metallic green paintjob to the engine capable of more power than a London roadway should ever see, it is most certainly a purchase that was picked out _for_ Jon, as opposed to _by_ Jon.

            “I’m surprised it’s got four doors,” Sansa says first.

            “Luckily, my aunt’s a fan of entourages.”

            Sansa does a full loop around the car, and Jon tries not to give purchase to the inexplicable insecurity that rises up in his stomach. When she comes to a stop beside him again, she says simply, “Next time Robb says he’s going to have to marry rich, I’ll send him your way.”

            Sam laughs at this, but Jon feels himself going red in the face and just about wishes he hadn’t offered to taxi either of them. “I will reiterate that this was a _gift_ , somewhat by force, and that I live in a three-bedroom flat with two other men and heating that only got fixed in time for the weather to start warming up. So.”

            Sansa places her hand on his upper arm, swiping her thumb across the muscle, soothing. (She hasn’t touched Jon since she joined him and Robb in London. It’s like somebody’s stepped back into the room, like something once lost has been recovered.) “I know, Jon,” she says warmly. “I’m just teasing.”

            In typical Sam fashion – i.e. for chivalrous reasons – he offers Sansa the front passenger seat. In typical Sansa fashion – i.e. for pragmatic reasons – she declines it. _I’m getting out first_ , she says. _It’s not fair on you._

*

Later, when it’s just the two of them in the car, Jon turns to Sam and asks, “Do all of them look at her like she’s something to eat?”

            Sam asks who he’s talking about.

            “Sansa. Sansa and that Baelish bloke.”

            Sam seems surprised. He says he might’ve noticed it a bit, but not much. “How’d you pick up on that?” he asks.

            Jon just thinks, _How come you didn’t?_

*

Tyrion says yes and signs a contract with Margaery.

Sansa’s sigh of relief is twofold.

*

Auditions are held in three stages as March draws ever closer.

            For the first round, Sansa sits in a room with Tyrion and Margaery, seeing actor after actor after actor. Some of them are brilliant. Some of them are blanks. Margaery intimidates most people, by name, appearance, or reputation, so her very presence in the audition room makes for an interesting process of elimination. The same can be said of Tyrion.

            Sansa finds that the more time she spends watching him direct, watching him work, the more she appreciates him. He’s as sharp as he is sardonic, but rarely deliberately unkind. She begins to notice on the third day of working with prospective actors that something within Tyrion seems to understand war, deeply, and most definitely understands Sam’s story. It’s sitting beside him on that Wednesday afternoon that Sansa begins to believe this play may very well be a success.

            A success, and she started it.

            _Stop it, Sansa. There’s so long to go yet._

            The second round of auditions brings in Arya and Robb, who have spent the majority of their free time leading up to the event formulating combat choreography in Sansa and Arya’s lounge.

            (“Watch this bit, Sans,” Robb had said at four in the afternoon, sounding extremely confident for a man with a broom handle sword and a shield made of old beer boxes.

            Setting down her laptop, Sansa had looked up from her perch on the edge of the couch, pushed up against the wall to allow for maximum floor area. Her eyes had switched from Robb to a rather smug Arya, whose wrapping paper weapon had proven surprisingly effective thus far. “Go on, then.”

            Content with their demonstration, Sansa had recorded it, passing it along to Margaery and Tyrion. Margaery had sent back an ever-professional _I’m in love with it and with your brother_ , and Tyrion had asked for the addition of a few more basic sword manoeuvres, _just to make life easier on our prospects, before they are forced to run the gauntlet. Not everyone studies stage combat at drama school._ )

            The third round is the chemistry read. Sam’s script lends itself to an ensemble cast of, essentially, “lead” characters, and Sansa sits in a room with Margaery for six hours, watching Tyrion pair people up, split them apart, create new pairs, switching from friends to foes and back again. It’s exhausting to watch. Sansa imagines it’s exhausting to carry out, too. But, like the actors still fighting for a job, there’s a seemingly inexhaustible adrenaline and exhilaration coursing through her – it plays on repeat in her brain that she, over a month ago now, had some role in catalysing this production – and when the end of the day arrives she feels prepared to do it all over again.

            They lock down the cast in the second week of February. Sansa feels like flying.

*

_I really hope your mate Gendry doesn’t think I planned for Valentine’s Day when I suggested drinks on the fourteenth._

            Jon, fresh out of an Ethics lecture on the Valentine’s Day in question, reads Arya’s text with something of a smirk. So Sansa was right, after all.

            _He probably didn’t realise_ , Jon types back. _He’s a bit useless like that._ _Congratulations, though?_

_You’re a great accidental matchmaker._

            _Thanks. Although Sansa called it, not me._

            _Oh, trust me, she’s humming a victory song as she bakes._

            Arya sends along an accompanying clip of Sansa in their kitchen, clad in a t-shirt and pyjama shorts, her hair up in a ponytail. There’s an air of smugness to her melodic humming and Jon pauses on the walk to his car so that he can properly hear the audio.

            (“What ya making, Sans?” Arya asks for the camera.

            Sansa turns around, saying, “Lemon cakes, to celebrate my baby sister – ” She cuts off, noticing she’s being filmed. “Oh, lovely, who’s that for then?”

            “Jon.”

            Sansa rolls her eyes, brushing flour off her front absentmindedly and leaning closer to the camera. “Hey, Snow.”)

            _Retaining her brand, I see_ , Jon types, sending it as he rounds the corner into the parking building.

            _Yeah, she’s ride or die for those lemons._

            A moment later, Arya texts him again: _You should come round. It’ll be Sansa home alone tonight and I think her sixteen-year-old self would just about die at the thought of spending Valentine’s solo._

            Jon hesitates, his phone in one hand and his car keys in the other. He unlocks his car and swipes out of his conversation with Arya, texting Sansa’s recently added new number instead.

            _Arya just invited me round to your place for the evening. Is this something you’re aware of?_

            He writes it out three times before fastening his seatbelt and hitting send.

*

Jon doesn’t check his phone again until he’s safely back in his flat and reclined across the couch. There are seven messages, all from Arya and Sansa.

 _16:47_   Sansa: _But she’s going out with Gendry tonight? She won’t be here?_

 _16:48_   Arya: _I can’t believe you texted Sansa._

 _16:48_   Arya: _No, of course I can, you’re a massive square._

 _16:49_   Sansa: _You can come anyway, if you want – if you don’t have special Valentine’s Day plans. I’ve got enough lemon cakes to feed an army._

 _16:49_   Arya: _If you don’t come, she’ll sit here by herself watching Bridget Jones and lamenting a time when you could afford a luxury character flat for just yourself in central London._

 _16:51_   Arya: _Think of the lemon cakes, Jon._

 _16:51_   Arya: _So many lemons died for this._

He ignores Arya’s texts, and asks Sansa what time she’d like him to come around.

*

_Hey, what kind of food does Sansa like?_

_She’s a big fan of the Thai place round the corner from ours._

Arya sends through a picture of Sansa’s preferred order, and when Jon hops off the Underground he makes sure to pick up a bottle of wine that goes with it.

*

Sansa opens the door to find Jon, sans man bun ( _like_ _home_ , she thinks), with food and wine in hand. Her heart and mouth both open, but what comes out of the latter is, “Oh, God, Jon, you didn’t have to _bring_ anything!”

            “Rubbish,” he says, stepping into the flat and tossing her a smile, like it’s no big deal, like showing up with her favourite takeaways and a bottle of wine is commonplace, and part of Sansa thinks that it ought to be (he’s close with Robb, and he’s close with Arya – perhaps he could be close with her, too). “Never show up empty-handed.”

            He sets down the wine on the kitchen bench, accompanied by the plastic bag of what smells like Thai from the restaurant down the road. Sansa closes the door, still somewhat flummoxed. How had he known about that?

            She’s more grateful than ever that she’d got changed and showered and put on makeup for this, even though it’s just Jon. (Because Thai and wine is what happens when it’s _just Jon_. Thai and wine and free lemonade and voluntary stage management.) Good things seem to come for Sansa when it’s _just Jon_.

            She goes to the cupboard to fetch wine glasses. “Shall we crack it open now?”

            “No time like the present.”

            She’s pouring them a glass each when Arya enters the room. She stops dead in her tracks, spotting Jon and the Thai food and Sansa pouring wine. She shoots Jon a suspicious kind of look, but Sansa only catches the tail end of it.

            “Right, you two,” Arya announces, “I’m off.”

            “Oh! Have fun,” says Sansa brightly, sliding Jon his glass of wine and sipping hers, crisp and still cool, “and call me if you need anything!”

            “Give him an appropriate amount of grief,” Jon tells Arya fondly.

            “What are you lot doing in the meantime?”

            Jon turns to Sansa, who shrugs. “Eating, drinking, being merry?” she supposes. “Jon brought dinner, Arya.”

            _There’s that look again._

            Arya quirks an eyebrow. “And here I was thinking you’d be dining on lemon cakes.”

            “Those, too,” Jon says. “I came for the lemon cakes.”

*

They sit together on the couch in front of the TV, downing the main kitchen light and letting a nondescript channel play a nondescript movie that neither of them are really watching. The coffee table is scattered with takeaway containers, still half full, and both of their wine glasses, and the dregs of the bottle.

            “Did you hear about Robb’s Valentine’s Day plans, then?”

            Catching Jon’s joking tone, Sansa glances across at him and quirks an eyebrow. “I did not. Did he finally pluck up the courage to ask out that med student he’s been mooning over for the past six months?”

            “Talisa?”

            “Yes, that’s her – the Amnesty International one.”

            “Yes, Talisa. He _did_.”

            Sansa laughs. “Brilliant. I’ll have to text him later and take the piss.”

            “What a sister you are.”

            “Well, he’s got Bran and Rickon to treat him like a hero, and Arya and I to bring him back down to earth. And he’s got you” – she faces Jon, to find him already looking at her – “to keep him sane through all of it.”

            She asks him, later, once it’s dark and their only source of light is the television screen, if he’d like a mid-main course lemon cake. Their Thai’s still unfinished, but she reasons that the order of meal consumption is arbitrary, _really_. When he replies in the affirmative, she dances into the fridge and assembles a plate of the cakes, plucked from the cooling rack on the kitchen counter. The plate’s piled high – perhaps too high – and Jon’s eyebrows fly up when he sees it.

            “Wow, you were right when you talked about the army.”

            “I’ve already got two full batches in containers in the fridge.”

            “That is _impressive_.”

            In a way, it's sitting here with Jon, a heaped plate of lemon cakes balanced half on her thigh and half on his, that Sansa realises how long they’ve actually known each other. They’ve spent birthdays together, and the Christmas before last, too (even if he’d only been at the Stark house for three days before jetting off to Scotland with his then-girlfriend). They’d stood together on the side-lines of Robb’s high school rugby games, and Jon had driven her home during tech week of _Florian and Jonquil_. She knitted him a pair of mittens when he first moved to London – the same as she’d knitted for Robb – but she doubts he’s ever worn them. He had been Robb’s-friend-Jon for so long, but it was a moment so similar to this one (just the two of them, somewhere like home) that made her start to think he could be Sansa’s-friend-Jon, too.

            “This reminds me of when I was fifteen,” says Sansa, as though the memory has burst out her mouth, “sitting here with you, eating lemon cakes.”

            At first she’s scared Jon doesn’t remember, but then he smiles, and of course he remembers – he seems to remember everything. “You were covered in flour.”

            She chuckles. “You were taller than me.”

            Briefly, she thinks he’s going to protest. Instead, he takes a sip of his wine and nods. “That _is_ true. I’d say we’re about even now, though.”

            “Feeling emasculated, are we, Jon?” Sansa jokes.

            “You being an Amazon doesn’t impact on anyone’s masculinity, Sansa. And if it does,” Jon adds, after a moment – the tone suddenly seems much more serious, much more intimate, and Sansa almost goes still with it – “then perhaps whoever’s bothered by it should reconsider – first, their worldview and, second, why it matters to them at all.”

            “Amen to that,” says Sansa, clinking her wine glass against his, trying not to think that Jon’s just described every boy she’s ever spent this day with (himself excluded, of course).

            (Jon’s always been in a league of his own.)

            She takes a sip of wine and settles further back into the couch, the lemon cakes teetering dangerously with her change of position. Her knee brushes Jon’s leg. “Thanks for calling me an Amazon, by the way. It’s a pretty big compliment.”

            “Well, if the sandal fits…”

            Sansa can’t help smiling.

            “They were fresh out of the oven last time,” he recalls a moment later. “So warm steam would come out of your mouth after you swallowed them.”

            Maybe it’s the effect of the wine, but Sansa grabs the plate from its perch and stands upright. “Let’s microwave them, then.”

            “Sansa, you don’t have to – ”

            “ – Rubbish.” She bats him off like it’s Thai food and wine bottle _nothing_. Like it’s free curls _nothing_. Like it’s professional theatrical commitment with next to no experience _nothing_. “You can’t half arse a time-honoured tradition, Jon.”

            “It can’t be a time-honoured tradition if it’s only happened twice,” Jon points out.

            “How do you think traditions are built?”

            He lets her go on without further argument. She chances a glance from the kitchen, and sees his gentle smile, illuminated by the glow of the television. He’s handsome in this low light.

            _He’s handsome everywhere_ , Sansa reasons – nothing new.

*

When Gendry and Arya sneak in around two in the morning, they’re surprised to find Sansa asleep on the living room couch. They’re even more surprised to find that Jon's there, too, sleeping right beside her.


	4. all the way back (where I belong)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent the past 48+ hours neck deep in Byron and Chaucer, so bonus points if you can find the Canterbury Tales reference in there.
> 
> Your comments and kudos warm my tender, thawing heart, and as usual, I hope you like it!!
> 
> (Also, I'm looking for someone to basically be my ideas-bouncer-offer-person, and someone I can send snippets to when I've written parts but feel directionless or something? Lemme know if that's something you'd be keen on? Or just hmu for bants, once again I'm @nedsnark on tumblr and love having m8s but don't really have any Jonsa ones lmao)

**iv. all the way back (where I belong)**

Jon wakes up on the fifteenth of February in Sansa and Arya’s flat, with not a Stark girl in sight. Empty takeaway containers and wine glasses from the night before are still littered across the coffee table in front of him, and down the hall he thinks he can hear the shower running, accompanied by the kind of feel-good Top 40 tunes he has over the years come to associate exclusively with Sansa. He smells bacon before he registers the sound of it sizzling in a pan, and, pulling himself up on one elbow, turning his head toward the kitchen, Jon finds the chef.

                  Gendry.

                  Gendry, wet-haired, shirtless, wearing a pair of tracksuit bottoms that Jon is _sure_ belong to Robb; Gendry, who’s got a frying pan in his hand and a smirk on his face, and who’s already got his eyes on Jon.

                  “Morning, Sunshine. Looking divine, as per.”

                  “What are you _doing here_?” Jon splutters.

                  “What are _you_ doing here?” Gendry shoots back, tilting the pan in his hand as though to flip an omelette rather than to fry bacon.

                  Jon eyes this motion warily, then pulls himself up with a yawn. “Came to keep Sansa company last night. Arya’s idea.” (Gendry’s face lights up at that, but Jon’s still too disoriented – and too gentle – to tease him about it.) “Didn’t think I’d end up staying over, but I must’ve fallen asleep.”

                  He comes to lean against the kitchen bench, and Gendry turns side-on to the hob so that he can simultaneously cook and converse.

                  Jon decides that this is _weird_.

                  Gendry – _his_ flatmate – is half-naked and _preparing food_ in _Sansa and Arya’s_ flat, having been out the night before with the younger of the Stark girls – (God, Arya is _nineteen_ (does he need to talk to Gendry about this? Is it the kind of conversation they should be having? Arya’s like his baby sister – but she’s _not_ his sister, and she’s _not_ a baby anymore, and she’s her own person, and Jon _really_ doesn’t want to linger on the reason that Gendry is still at the flat)) – and they’re both just _standing here_ , like – like – like it’s _normal_.

                  “Did you know it was Valentine’s Day yesterday?” Gendry asks, having found a spatula while Jon was having his emotional crisis. He moves the bacon around in the pan, so nonchalant that it almost sends Jon spiralling again.

                  Instead, he gives a weary nod. “Believe it or not, I did.”

                  “I’d forgotten it was even a Day,” Gendry says. “But they were doing deals for prissy little cocktails at the bar because of it – y’know, those fluorescent ones that look all sugar and no grog and then hit you like a fuckin’ _truck_?” – Jon _does_ , because he _makes_ them, and Gendry seems satisfied with the near-silent _aye_ that he gives as a concession, continuing on – “Well, Arya kept buying them for me, to take the piss, and I kept drinking them – because I’m not enough of an idiot to turn down free booze in a London pub, least of all from a girl like _Arya_ – and, after a while, I cottoned on that the special was because – y’know – _Valentine’s_.”

                  Possibly more exhausted following this lengthy explanation than he was preceding it, Jon gives another nod.

                  “Looks like you need a coffee, lad,” Gendry says. “Not hungover from half a Tesco bottle, are you?”

                  “I’ll have you know it was at least a Waitrose bottle, thanks.”

                  “Oh – you’re classy for Sansa.”

                  “ _When in Rome_ …”

                  Arya appears then, right where the edge of the lounge meets the corridor. Her hair is also damp, rumpled like she’s run it through with a towel, and Jon almost starts to feel like the situation’s normal again, with her padding out in a frayed grey t-shirt and tiny pyjama shorts, like it’s a Saturday morning in the Stark house up north again. She greets Jon with a lightly mocking _Morning, Sunshine_ and bounds – surprisingly soundlessly – through the living area to the kitchen, where she jabs her hands into Gendry’s sides and laughs as he yelps. This situation, Jon decides, is most certainly _not_ normal. (Though he wonders how the hell he didn’t think to introduce them before.)

                  “You’ll have to come round more often,” Arya is telling Gendry, “now I know you’re breakfast-inclusive.”

                  He barks out a laugh. “Don’t know where you got _that_ idea from, love – these six rashers are all mine.”

                  “Pity,” Arya says, and she starts digging around in the fridge, pulling out a carton of orange juice, taking a swig from it. “I was gonna offer you a crate of Sansa’s lemon cakes.”

                  She hands the juice to Gendry, who swigs it as she did.

                  Jon – deeply thrown off by the easy domesticity of the scene, and somewhat scared that they’ve forgotten he’s here – clears his throat. “I can vouch for the lemon cakes. You’re making a mistake, Gendry.”

                  Arya nods fervently. She thrusts one agreeing finger in Jon’s direction and she directs a pointed gaze up at Gendry. _See?_

                  Defeated, he makes a show of conceding, sighing with far more dramatics than any human naturally would. “Alright. _Fine_. I _suppose_ I can spare a rasher or two.”

                  (He spares four, and ends up cooking more to feed himself and Jon while Arya fills up the kettle for tea.)

*

Sansa hears the events unfolding in the kitchen before she sees them for herself. She hears food being cooked, the kettle coming to a boil; she hears Jon and Arya and what must be Gendry’s voice, if the phrases she can decipher are anything to go by.

                  Jon meets her eye as she enters, throwing her a look – _what are we gonna do about these two?_ – and Sansa can’t help smiling at him, shaking her head slightly. She feigns a roll of her eyes.

                  Gendry asks if she wants sugar in her tea and stirs in the requested _spoonful, please_ when she replies.

                  Sansa’s never given much thought to what a boyfriend of Arya’s would be like (her sister’s always been far more focused on gymnastics and/or fencing than anything else), but this is markedly less awkward than whatever she would’ve imagined. He’s also wearing far less clothing, and Sansa guesses by his hair – and Arya’s – that the two of them had shared a shower this morning, but for some reason she’s not uncomfortable; she’s just quietly pleased. If her sister’s found somebody, Sansa’s glad they’re as cranky and capable and _kind_ as each other.

                  She takes a seat next to Arya at the squashed, square kitchen table, and the latter takes a gulp of her tea – true builders’ – before turning to her older sister.

                  “How’d ya sleep, Sans? Couch put a crick in your neck?”

                  Sansa runs a hand across the back of her neck, rubbing out a pain that isn’t there. “No, actually. Surprising.”

                  “I knew Jon’s bulky shoulders were good for something,” says Gendry loudly, and Sansa turns to see him elbowing the closest arm attached to said shoulders, as the owner of both goes slightly pink.

                  “All those hours in the gym,” Jon replies in faux-salutation, “just so girls could fall asleep on me when they got bored of talking.”

                  The rest of them laugh at that, which results in an upward tug of Jon’s lips, small, satisfied, and perhaps faintly smug – but perhaps just pleased.

                  _It’s like home_ , Sansa thinks.

                  And on one level, _of course it is_ , because she and Jon and Arya were all raised on those same, wintery streets up north.

                  On another, though, her homes have always been built inside other people – people who find it so easy to knock them down. These are not those people. These people lift their saws, and their drills, and their hammers, and they build alongside her.

*

Margaery negotiates a rehearsal schedule with Tyrion, Sansa, and Jon – one that Robb and Arya are able to flit in and out of when necessary – and in the final week of February, she sends it out to the cast.

*

The table read takes place on the third of March, in a Highgarden Theatre Co. rehearsal studio called the Reach, outside the central city. Sansa arrives twenty minutes early, script in hand and heart threatening to leap from her chest. The Tyrell car pulls up right as she’s about to walk in, and Margaery climbs out as gracefully as if it were a carriage to Cinderella’s ball. She’s followed by her grandmother Olenna, whose very presence intimidates and inspires Sansa in equal measure, as well as Loras and Renly. Flowery perfume hits Sansa like a train, but she breathes it in eagerly as she’s given four kisses on each cheek, two for each member of the entourage. Olenna in particular pauses, resting a hand on Sansa’s cheek, looking up at her with deep, knowing eyes.

                  “It’s been too long, Sansa.”

                  “It has.”

                  (She wishes the memories of being _-and-Sansa_ would stop haunting her like this.)

                  The Tyrells, far more used to the floor plan of the Reach than Sansa is, forge ahead to a large, wooden sliding door labelled _1_. Loras gives the metal handle an effortless shove and its wheels go gliding to the right. From what Sansa can see, the room is empty. (But then, behind Loras and his curls, she’s missing quite a bit of crucial visibility.)

                  “Looks like we’re not the first here,” he announces, with all the _Pilates vois_ of a born-and-raised stage actor. Turning to Margaery immediately, he lowers his voice. “Is this the Adonian SM?”

                  Renly responds in the affirmative before Margaery gets the chance to: “I’d agree with that.”

                  And finally they clear and _yes_ , they’re _right_ , it’s _Jon_ , with a dozen bottles of mineral water in the crook of his left arm. He waves with his right as he continues depositing a bottle beside each place setting, with the name and role of the person seated there.

                  “What are you already doing here?” Sansa asks, making her way over to him as the Tyrells (and Renly, though he’s of that echelon and Sansa includes him in the group) glide forward to be formally introduced.

                  “A good stage manager shows up thirty minutes early for every rehearsal, to make sure everything’s sorted and ready,” says Jon. He leans closer to her and whispers, “I Googled it.”

                  He pulls away as she giggles, extending a hand to shake Olenna’s. “I’m Jon Snow, I’m stage managing.”

                  “Olenna Tyrell,” she replies – _as though she’s got to introduce herself to anyone_ , Sansa thinks; _West End legend Olenna Redwyne_ (they even named the bar after her, which is part of the reason Loras gets free drinks) – “Company Director.”

                  Jon gives her hand a firm shake. “It’s an honour to meet you, Olenna.”

                  Next in line is Loras, and upon his and Renly’s introductions, Jon turns to Sansa and goes, “so _these_ two are the ones to go on a night out with.” It works a charm, and they’re endeared to him immediately.

                  “And I’ve already met you, Margaery – ”

                  “ – Oh, but I’ll take a handshake, Jon, if you’re giving them out.”

                  Sansa notes that, if she didn’t already have it on file, Margaery would probably also _take_ Jon’s _phone number_ , if he were _giving it out_.

                  Margaery’s distracted from her recreational flirting by the sound of her phone, and Sansa watches the back of Jon’s neck fade back to its natural colour from strawberry red. She takes two steps before he moves back to work and slots her head in over his shoulder.

                  “Where am I sitting then, Snow?”

                  He turns infinitesimally and she can feel his soft exhalation. “You’re over by Tyrion,” he says in a voice small enough to fit in the gap between them. “Fifth chair in on that side, over there.”

                  “Brilliant – thanks, Jon.”

                  She retracts her head and her presence against his shoulder and practically skips to the place in question. The Tyrells are four seats to her left, Renly and Loras occupying seats that belong to cast members because _we’ll only be here for two seconds; we just want to get a look at things and then we’re off to Brighton_.

                  Setting down her script, Sansa can’t resist picking up her placard and turning it around – she’s ridiculously excited just to see _her name_ on that white triangular prism of gilt-edged industrial card. But when she reads it properly, she pauses.

                  “Jon, I’m the Production Designer, not the Assistant Director.”

                  “Nonsense – you’re a woman of multitudes,” Olenna declares, amidst conversation with her grandchildren.

                  Jon looks up from his water bottle distribution. “I actually emailed Tyrion,” he says, “and that’s what he told me to write. Both.”

                  Sansa’s heart skips a beat. “But – I’m not the Assistant Director.” She turns to Margaery. “Am I?”

                  “Well, darling, think over the job description.”

                  _It makes sense._

                  “I’ve heard of ADs and SMs being one in the same,” Sansa says, “but not ADs and Production Designers.”

                  “Consider yourself a game-changer, Miss Stark.”

                  Tyrion’s voice – deep and rich and with a difference yet equal resonance to Loras’ – echoes through the room. The man himself stands in the threshold a beat, and then moves to take his seat.

                  “Thank you,” Sansa tells him hopelessly, gratefully, feeling the part of her that still might search for glory – or acknowledgement – singing within her chest. It’s seventeen years old and she tries to force it down but perhaps it just sits closely to joy and she’s mistaking one for the other.

                  “I simply put a title on a role you already had,” says Tyrion nonchalantly, flipping through his script. “I would have called you Producer, too, if I didn’t think it might be stepping too close to Miss Tyrell.”

                  Jon, having fulfilled his watering duties, slides into the seat beside Sansa. He opens his mouth to say something, and Sansa thinks it would have been aimed at her, but Tyrion speaks again.

                  “This place looks good, Snow. The water bottles were an inspired touch.”

*

The read through is a complete success: Sam arrives shortly after Tyrion, and then it’s the cast; Robb and Arya pile in – Robb having met Arya after her early morning fencing class – right before everything kicks off.

Sansa’s heard all about “the feeling in the room” when magic is being made, when moments are drafting history, when the minute will be monumental one day. She imagines it feels like this.

*

 _19:36_        Sansa: _Tyrion and Margaery have both sent me emails praising your rehearsal reports._

 _19:36_        Sansa: _“Punctuality” and “precision” have both been brought up. I’m taking credit for headhunting you._

 _19:38_        Jon: _Glad to hear it. Definitely a result of fierce headhunting._

 _19:39_        Sansa: _You really didn’t take much convincing._

 _19:46_        Jon: _Anything for a modest headhunter._

 _19:49_        Sansa: _I’ll see you at rehearsal on Thursday, right?_

 _19:49_        Jon: _Of course you will, Sans. Kind of my job to be there._

 _19:49_        Jon: _Who’ll manage the stage if I don’t?_

 _19:50_        Sansa: _The stage would, in fact, be unmanageable._

 _19:59_        Jon: _See you then, then?_

 _20:00_        Sansa: _I’ll be the one holding fabric samples._

*

Gendry grabs Jon’s phone off the kitchen bench with surprising speed for a man whose right hand and mouth are holding equal quantities of cheeseburger. Jon’s protest is little more than a grimace and an _alright, mate, please?_ Because he knows Gendry’s nothing if not persistent.

                  “Why,” Gendry begins, muffled by Jon’s attempt at upscaling from McDonald’s, “are you getting all rosy-cheeked and grinny about a text from Sansa?”

                  “You’re a prat,” Jon says, assembling himself another burger from the various ingredients strewn across the bench. “That’s why.”

                  “Bit defensive there, Jonny Boy.”

                  “How am I meant to respond to that?” Jon asks. “I feel like you won’t drop this, no matter what avenue I go down.”

                  Gendry asks where else Jon’s thinking of going down, which earns him a smack.

                  “I’m just _wondering_ ,” Gendry says pointedly, rubbing his shoulder as Jon takes a bite of his burger, “if you fancy her.”

                  Jon swallows, furrowing his brow. “Why would it matter to you?”

                  His flatmate shrugs. “We could be brothers one day, is all.”

                  “Brothers, huh?” Jon says, smirking. He’s ready to earn a smack back. “Already decided you’re spending your life with Arya?”

                  “Well – I mean – I just – ”

                  The realisation of what he had said seems to have turned Gendry into a goldfish, and Jon pities him. It’s sweet, really. Jon tells him so, but he wouldn’t be surprised if Gendry still thinks he’s taking the piss.

*

Two weeks later, on another Thursday night, it’s absolutely pouring down. They’ve been inside the Reach so long, in the insulated rehearsal space, and it’s only when Jon makes to leave the place – last, as per – that he notices the torrent, the storm. He notices because he finds himself face to face with an absolutely drenched Sansa. He hasn’t turned the last of the lights off, so he can see the full extent of it.

                  There’s one raindrop-worth of mascara run under her eye, Jon notices, and the vapour of the downpour has washed over her whole face. It reflects in the industrial lighting, almost crystalline. Her hair’s wet and clinging to her neck where Robb’s old hoodie – with its faded direwolf logo and the block-lettered _Stark_ that used to sit against Robb’s lower back, almost daily, in sixth form – hadn’t covered it, but the rest is red and resplendent as ever when she pulls the hood down.

                  “God, I’m sorry!” she says first, blotting at her face with the end of her sleeve. “I was planning on taking the tube home, but the station’s a ten minute walk away, and – ”

                  “ – and even though it’s spring, we’ve suddenly got winter winds and rain to deal with?”

                  She laughs, giving a somewhat damp nod. “Indeed. Jon,” she says suddenly, formally, “I wouldn’t normally ask it of you, but – ”

                  “Sans, I’m driving you home; you don’t have to ask.”

                  Her face simultaneously lights up and short-circuits. “I mean, you don’t have to. It’s not really on your way – and the tube’s not far – I’d get it if you just wanted to drop me at the station – ”

                  Jon raises his eyebrows at her. “ _Sansa_ , it’s _fine_. I’m happy to do it.”

                  “Are you sure?”

                  “Completely.” He cuts the last of the lights and punches in the alarm code, waiting for its mechanical _beep_ timer to kick in. He gestures to his car, just opposite the main door to the Reach, then turns to Sansa. “It’s not far – reckon we can manage it?”

                  “Reckon you can manage anything,” Sansa jokes, “at this stage.”

                  Jon gives her a sarcastic, performative laugh – the kind of thing he’s probably picked up from running around up home with Theon in particular – and then presses the _unlock_ button on his car keys. He pulls the door to the Reach closed and they make a break for it.

                  He’s just about more disoriented than he is cold when he clambers into the driver’s seat of RHA3 G4L. He shoves the key in the ignition and the engine roars to life; Jon reaches for the heater without a word, and once the resulting condensation is clearing off the windshield, he turns to Sansa.

                  “I seem to have brought half the storm in with me,” she says with a degree of mournfulness, wiping at the wet door and dashboard with her already-damp sleeve. “Sorry about that.”

                  “Don’t worry about it, Sans.”

                  “Jon, this car cost about as much as our whole production.”

                  “It’s a hand-me-down from my aunt,” he tells her, hoping that doesn’t sounding like he’s discounting or disparaging its financial worth. (In truth, it makes him extremely uncomfortable.) “Probably could use a clean anyway.”

                  She starts taking long swipes down her thighs next, her dark-washed denim jeans sticking to them the same way Jon’s stick to his. (Privately, he thinks that his are a far worse sight than Sansa’s, but then, those are legs he’d know anywhere – legs he studied at seventeen, though he’d insist that he hadn’t.)

                  Once the car’s in drivable condition and they’ve cleared the Reach carpark, when Sansa’s plugged in her phone and commenced humming softly to the music coming through the speakers, Jon chances a glance over at her. “Bit like _Jonquil_ , isn’t it?”

                  Sansa’s responding smile isn’t quite a beam, but it’s certainly a few sunrays: fond and warm. “Very. Only Robb hasn’t tasked you with doing it this time around.”

                  “What?” Jon asks, puzzled.

                  “Robb didn’t ask you to give me a lift tonight,” she explains, as though that’s what he’s confused about.

                  “Robb never asked me,” Jon tells her. “I offered.”

                  Sansa raises her eyebrows. “Rubbish – why would you go out of your way to taxi me to and fro for three weeks if Robb didn’t ask you to? We weren’t exactly close.”

                  _You underestimate just how head over heels I was for you._

                  He feigns a shrug. “I just thought it’d save your parents having to do it, and I was involved, and Robb wasn’t, so…” He shrugs again.

                  In the rear view mirror, he sees Sansa looking at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re a rare gem, Jon Snow.”

                  “Like tanzanite.”

                  She bursts out in incredulous laughter. “ _Tanzanite_? Where did that come from?”

                  Jon grins, probably stupidly. “It’s a rare gem,” he explains.

                  “Yeah, but why’s _that_ the one that comes to mind?”

                  “Well, I mean, no rare gem should come to mind, if it’s _really_ that rare – but I saw it once and thought it sounded like my dad’s surname, which always kinda fascinated me, even if I didn’t have it. And it’s this purpley-blue colour, like his eyes – and my aunt’s – y’know, that side of the family. So. Tanzanite.”

                  It’s either the way she looks at him then that makes his face feel hot, or it’s the heater, and Jon decides it would be better for all involved if he embraced the second option, so he takes that and runs with it.

                  “Thanks for voluntarily driving around some random, ungrateful fifteen-year-old – especially after hours working backstage on a show that you thought was half shit,” Sansa says after a moment.

                  “Just the _Florian_ half,” Jon says. “ _Jonquil_ was incredible. Right up there with the best of them.”

                  “You’re only saying that because I’m _here_ ,” Sansa insists, rolling her eyes. “I was a kid in a school show; I’ll accept that I wasn’t that good.”

                  Jon shakes his head, eyes on the road ahead. “I don’t know – you never saw you perform.”

                  “You never saw me either – you were too busy out the back, trying not to crush me with the set.”

                  “I mean, you’ve – you’ve got me there. But I promise I watched all the scenes I didn’t have to manipulate the scenery of.”

                  Sansa considers it. “That’s fair.”

                  There’s silence between them a moment, and Sansa starts humming along to her music again. Jon almost reaches over to turn it up, but decides against it in favour of clarifying a point.

                  “You weren’t ungrateful, by the way.”

                  “What?”

                  “You said _thanks_ every time I drove you.”

                  Perhaps it’s the light, but now Jon thinks _her_ face might look pink. “I can’t believe you remember that, Jon. That’s – like – what, five years ago? Coming up on six?”

                  “Something like that, I think. But, yeah, no, you weren’t ungrateful. You were always great about it, right from the lemon cakes afternoon.”

                  Sansa laughs. “That lemon cakes afternoon continues to hang over us. I s’pose it’s the foundation of our friendship.”

                  “Oh, definitely. Lemon cakes and car rides.”

                  She sighs, turning the music up as it reaches its chorus. “That sounds pretty good to me.”

                  It sounds good to Jon, too, but something in him’s already afraid of having said too much.


	5. pick your feet up off of the ground (and never ever let you down)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, gang! Ya girl is back. 
> 
> (I don't know if I'm happy with this chapter or even if I like it much at all, but you can't progress with a serial release if you're not gonna post a chapter lol)
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!!! Lots of love!!!

**v. pick your feet up off of the ground (and never ever let you down)**

 

When April rolls around, Sansa can’t help but feel like it’s all going too well.

            One day, she turns to Margaery and says, _You’ve been incredibly relaxed about the fact more than half of the production crew are amateurs._

            Margaery seems to read something in her face and clasps Sansa’s hand tight. _Amateurs have their advantages. You’re all so determined to get it right – and you’re earnest and attentive and a good kind of nervous. You and Jon have both been godsends._ She squeezes Sansa’s fingers as though to wink. _And not just because you’re both so lovely to look at._

            That assuages Sansa’s nerves somewhat. Most of her believes Margaery wouldn’t lie.

*

It’s a crisp spring morning and Jon’s alone at the Reach, setting up Studio 1 for the day’s rehearsal. It’s a long one – eight hours, trying to master some of the more diplomatic scenes. Most of the leads are in, some for longer than others, but it’s a significant rehearsal block for all of them. Jon already knows he’s got his work cut out for him with today’s report – Tyrion will be bound to have prop requirements, sound cues. The blocking notes alone will be as complicated as any of Robb and Arya’s combat choreography.

            There are footsteps at the door and Jon looks up, expecting Tyrion. He doesn’t know why that would be, though, because all of Tyrion’s footfalls are more determined, more rapid, than these. No – these are slow: deliberate and dramatic in equal measure. Jon’s unsurprised and unimpressed by the person who caused them.

            Petyr Baelish stands at the door, his hands behind his back, surveying the room. Jon turns back to his work, thinking that perhaps Baelish is working in another studio, or perhaps he’ll leave when he doesn’t find what he’s looking for. When it becomes apparent that Baelish is not simply passing through, Jon decides something has to be done.

            “Can I help you?” he asks gruffly, keeping his eyes locked on the chair he’s placing for Tyrion.

            “The Assistant Director’s not around at all?”

            Jon raises his head, levelling a withering gaze at Baelish and keeping his mouth shut.

            Baelish gives Jon a disdainful once-over. “Well, give Tyrion my best when you see him.”

            Jon thinks that would be a closing remark, but Baelish likes an opportunity to monologue, and continues despite Jon’s silence.

            “Of course, that’s probably a big deal for somebody like you, isn’t it? Although, you were such an amateur that you’d likely never heard of Tyrion Lannister. And now you’re working with him! Look at that.” He snakes his way across the room, slippery, almost as though stalking prey. “You know, it’s not every day that a boy with no professional experience gets a job stage managing for Highgarden Theatre Company… they’re the second biggest on the West End – after the Court – so why would they take a chance on this little production? But, then, I suppose, the naysayers have all underestimated this… endeavour… of Sansa Stark’s – ”

            “ – From what I recall,” Jon bites, cutting across him as though to slice the man’s throat, “you weren’t hired to direct this production.”

            Baelish raises his eyebrows, so Jon elaborates.

            “This is a private studio. You don’t belong here.”

            “We never properly met, when I came to the theatre. Do you remember? I don’t believe you said a word.”

            “There wasn’t anything to say,” Jon says, conscious of the fact that Sansa could walk in that door any second and even more conscious of the fact that he doesn’t want Baelish here when she does. “I’ve still got nothing to say to you. This is a private studio. You’re not involved in this production.”

            Jon thinks that’s done it – he thinks that Baelish is going to turn and go. Unfortunately, his subtle sigh of relief ends up being premature.

            “She’s a lovely girl, that Sansa.”

            _You don’t know her_ , Jon thinks. He repeats these words aloud to Baelish, blood suddenly pumping loud through his ears like the crash of waves against rock – on the edge of a tumultuous ocean.

            “You can learn everything you need to know about someone from one look at them,” Baelish says dismissively. “And I certainly got more than one look at _her_.”

            Knuckles pulled so white his fists are shaking, his stomach either gone or laced with lead, Jon fixes his gaze on Baelish. They’re matched for height, but Jon’s so much younger and so much broader. He wonders for a moment if he’s actually going to reach forward and hit Baelish; it would be so easy to. Instead, he opens his mouth, low and assertive.

            “Let’s get something straight, _Baelish_.” (And Jon can see that the man’s blood is already running cold.) “You’re going to turn on your heel, and you’re going to leave. And when you do, you’re going to keep your hands and your mouth – and your _eyes_ – _off_ this production. You’re going to slither back under whichever rock you crawled out from, and you’re not going to bother anyone” – one particular name hangs in the air between them, as suffocating and as sweet as if it had actually been spoken – “again.”

            Baelish swallows. Jon’s running too fierce and too fiery to stop now.

            “And if you don’t see that course of action as _advantageous_ enough for you, I can always have you forcibly removed. Does the name Sandor Clegane ring a bell?”

            Baelish blinks twice, then hisses, “You talk a big game for a boy who won’t handle me himself.”

            Jon’s gaze doesn’t waver.

           “You _look_ at Sansa again, and I’ll personally make you wish you’d _never_ laid eyes on her.”

*

“Petyr Baelish just passed by me in the car park,” Tyrion says casually, crossing the room toward the chair Jon set out for him. “He suggested that I keep Sansa Stark’s guard dog on a leash. Since I’m unaware of Sansa owning any kind of canine creature at this point in time, I’m inclined to assume he meant you.”

            Jon, still breathing a little heavy, runs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t respond.

            “She’s a smart girl,” Tyrion says, taking a seat and pulling out his tattered director’s script.

            “She is.”

            “Beautiful, too.”

            Jon’s head snaps up at that, his jaw set and his –

            “You can unclench your fists,” Tyrion says, not bothering to look up from the pages he’s flicking through. “My interest in Sansa is purely professional. The same,” he concludes, “cannot be said for you.”

            “I – ”

            “Oh, don’t panic, Snow. Your secret’s safe with me.”

            “I don’t have feelings for Sansa,” Jon insists.

            Tyrion doesn’t seem to believe him.

            “She’s like my _sister_.” (Which is a lie if Jon’s ever told one, but Tyrion doesn’t have to know that.)

            “She may be _like_ your sister, but she is _not_ your sister. And while I _have_ personally borne witness to people looking at their siblings the way you look at that girl, it is a rarity.” Tyrion sighs, sinking back further into his seat. “You can consider Robb Stark a brother without Sansa being your sister.”

            “Biologically, not really.”

            “This isn’t biology, Jon Snow; it’s a tedious metaphor that you created.”

            “It’s a tedious metaphor I’d like to get _out of_.” Hoping to convince him (and perhaps himself): “I don’t have feelings for Sansa.”

            “I spend my life dealing with actors,” says Tyrion. “You, Jon, are not a good one.”

            After a moment, Tyrion sets his script down. “Out of interest, what _was_ Baelish doing here?”

            Jon collapses into one of the seats next to Tyrion, reserved for Sansa or Jon himself when rehearsal actually began. “He wanted to see Sansa.”

            “Yes, I figured as much.”

            Jon grunts.

            “And that bothered you?”

            “Of course it did!” Jon says, almost a snap. “He’s got no reason to be here – he didn’t get the job!”

            “Yes, I _had_ heard he was up for it.”

            “Well, he was a right sleaze in his interview,” Jon tells Tyrion. “He was trying to be suave but he kept acting like a prick and looking at Sansa like he wanted to _eat her_. Even Margaery called him _Slimy Pete_.”

            Tyrion smirks. “That sounds like Miss Tyrell.”

            “But he’s obviously just turned up when he _thinks_ Sansa might be here, so he could have a shufti at her, like she’s a – a – an _exhibition_ , or something. And – ”

            “ – And it’s a worry, to say the least,” Tyrion finishes. “Yes. Sansa _does_ seem to have an unfortunate run of it, where men are concerned. My cretin of a nephew is indicative of that.”

            Jon’s mouth sours at the mention of Joffrey, but he enjoys that his dislike for the boy is matched by Tyrion’s. “I’ve got no fucking clue why she ever put up with him.”

            “I can’t say I do, either. I’m glad she escaped the Court in the end.” Tyrion smiles. “This production could very much be the making of her.”

            “I think _she’s_ the making of _this production_.”

            The older man looks warmly over at him – pleasant and almost pitying. “This coming from the man who’s not in love with her?”

            “You don’t have to be in love with her to see how incredible she is,” Jon says simply.

            “Yes, but once you’ve seen how incredible she is, it’s hard not to be in love with her.”

            “ _You’re_ not.”

            “No, I’m not, but I’m also twenty years older than her and she reminds me of my niece. I think you’ll find that’s immensely destructive for any kind of non-mentoring tendencies.”

            Jon smirks.

            “But _you’re_ not twenty years older than her, _and_ you look at her like she stitched the sun from a strand of her hair, so I’d go so far as to say you’re in love with her.”

            “ _I_ – I don’t – ”

            Tyrion rolls his eyes. “This is exhausting, Jon Snow.” He clears his throat, signalling a change in topic. “I don’t particularly care how many men you scare off or how many feelings you have, for whomever – as long as you continue to do your job.”

*

 _15:36_      Sansa: _Are you alright? You seem tense._

 _15:38_     Jon: _Wow. Texting me from two seats down. I’m loving the secondary school treatment._

 _15:38_     Sansa: _Answer the question, you numpty._

 _15:39_     Jon: _Y’know, the vicious written attack and the accompanying glare you gave me aren’t helping your case._

 _15:40_     Sansa: _Jon._

 _15:40_     Sansa: _Genuinely._

 _15:40_     Sansa: _You’d tell me if something was up, right?_

 _15:41_      Jon: _I don’t know that I would… you’d probably find the person responsible and give them a stern talking-to._

 _15:42_      Sansa: _Damn right I would._

 _15:42_      Sansa: _Would that wound your pride? I’d be sly about it. You’d never know._

 _15:43_      Jon: _Thanks, Sans, but I don’t think I need you defending my honour just yet. Everything’s fine._

 _15:45_      Sansa: _Good._

*

In the second week of April, Edd has a few of his mates from football round at the flat for drinks.

            Jon is introduced to Pyp and Grenn and Yoren, and after everyone’s got beer in their hands, Edd announces that all of them would be more than happy to help Jon out in any way they can for his stage management role.

            _You said you were looking for stagehands_ , Edd says. _We’re not stagey, but we’ve got hands – we’d be happy to do it. If you could train us up._

            Jon is initially surprised, but Edd tells him everything’s been talked over and it works out perfectly: Pyp and Grenn are both in construction, and it gets a bit slow over the summer when most of the _Made in Chelsea_ types are abroad; Yoren’s losing hours at the police station.

            _What about you? You’re on the night shift in Customs_ , Jon points out.

            _Got out of it, didn’t I?_ Edd says. _Told them it was for religious purposes – can’t work nights for most of June and all of July._

            Jon is in private disbelief at just how the hell Edd managed to swing that agreement, but he doesn’t question it. He’s glad to take the help, and he vows to bring Gendry on board as well – and not just because he’s bound to agree for Arya’s sake.

*

At the end of a three-hour combat rehearsal, Sansa and her siblings exit the Reach. Robb and Arya are faintly sweaty, and Sansa’s making rapid mental notes on how to make the fabric of the costumes light enough to be workable for the actors but sturdy enough to look like accurate battle-wear. Her mind’s working a mile a minute, wondering which material would be better – can they paint lightweight plates to cheat as metal? But how would that look from the front row? She pauses, lost in thought, tapping her foot as though fidgeting with a pen. Robb and Arya seem to realise she’s not following.

            “You coming, Sans?” Robb asks, coming to a stop and tilting his head back in the direction of the car, flicking a thumb over his shoulder.

            Arya calls shotgun – “Like an American!” – and chuckles at her little joke.

            Costuming issues banished from her mind, Sansa ponders the disappointment that has replaced it. Whatever it is has taken strong root in her gut.

            She _should_ go with them – (a) Robb’s her brother and (b) she _lives_ with Arya, so they’re _obviously_ headed directly to her flat – but part of her goes into pre-emptive mourning at the loss of the twenty-five-minute drive with only Jon for company. It’s become a pattern, a rhythm; she’d be sad to miss it. Which is ridiculous, of course, because she sees Jon three times a week anyway, and all they ever do is sit there, and chat, about life or about the show (she wonders what his thoughts are on the armour dilemma), and sometimes they sing along to whatever song her phone is blaring through the car’s Bluetooth – Sansa loudly and Jon softly – and, really, what’s a one-time commute home with her siblings, especially when it does Jon the favour of not forcing him to drive in almost the opposite direction to his flat?

            But, it occurs to Sansa with earth-shattering clarity, she _loves_ driving home with Jon.

            She loves how he listens to her when she speaks, and when she sings; she loves making him laugh, and she loves when he cracks a joke back, in the quietly witty way that characterises him so perfectly. She loves hearing his rants about unresponsive cast members; she loves that the time belongs to just the two of them. She loves that nobody else is sitting there beside him, that no one else sees the sure grip of his knuckles around the steering wheel, the way his eyes look rich and dark and glittering with flecks of passing headlights. She loves it all and – oh, God, of course it’s happened this way, inside her like a pre-existing ache – she doesn’t just love _it_ , she loves _him_.

            She loves him and it makes all the sense in the world.

            “Sans?” Robb repeats, interrupting his sister’s epiphany.

            “Oh! Uh – ”

            “Sansa – ” ( _and there’s his voice, like a song, like a saviour_ ) Jon slows down upon reaching them, like he’d left the studio at a running pace. “You wouldn’t mind coming to meet with Brienne, would you? She’s got prototypes of the big armour components at Highgarden and I’ll need your opinion on them as PD.”

            “Oh,” Sansa says again, trying to keep herself as calm as possible when he’s just enabled the exact thing she’d been so scared to miss out on. “Yeah, sure, of course.” She swivels toward her siblings. “I’ll catch you at home – are you having tea at ours, Robb?”

            “Nah,” he says, “seeing Talisa.”

            Arya and Sansa trade a smirk.

*

“I thought Brienne was busy with _Lady Stoneheart_ at the moment,” Sansa says once she’s buckled her seatbelt and plugged in her phone and they’ve rounded the corner from the studio.

            “She is,” Jon tells her, brave – or brazen – or both. “I just didn’t want to drive home alone.”

            There’s a bright, unchecked smile that gleams across Sansa’s face before she tempers it into a much more casual quirk of her mouth; Jon misses the beam as soon as it goes.

            “That was crafty,” Sansa tells him, chuckling.

            “Thanks. I love it when people acknowledge I’ve got the capacity.”

            Sansa’s laugh is louder this time. When it peters out, she says, “Y’know, we can probably only get away with following Robb and Arya for so long – before they realise it’s a ruse and you’re driving me to the exact same place they’re headed.”

            Sensing her tone, Jon asks, “Are you suggesting we make a detour?”

            “All I’m saying” – and her voice is lofty with fake innocence – “is dinner probably wouldn’t go amiss. If we’re trying to see the lie through and combat your imminent loneliness.”

            “It’s a Friday night,” Jon says. “Don’t you have plans?”

            “What kind of plans would I have that you don’t know about, Jon? This play is kind of my life now. It’s university and this.”

            “Well, _I_ don’t know,” he protests. “You could’ve had a date or something.” (And he’s suddenly aware that part of him is probing, with this; he’s saying it as a joke, or perhaps in earnest, but part of him really wants to know. _It’s because she’s been hurt before_ , he insists. _It’s because you want to make sure no one’s going to hurt her again._ ) “Some big strapping bloke? Tall? With shoulders? Heading into science or diplomacy – y’know, the list goes on...”

            “Did you just describe Dickon Tarly?”

            “Why?” Jon shoots back. “You been studying his shoulders?”

            Sansa rolls her eyes at him. “I certainly have _not_. Tall guys aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, anyway.” Something in Jon wonders if she’s not saying this on purpose, just to toy with him. “Having somebody _physically_ look down on you can translate quite easily to its figurative equivalent.”

            Jon raises his eyebrows, speaking next half in jest and half in hope – the latter of which surprises him, and perhaps doesn’t.

            “You looking for a bloke your height then?”

            Sansa sends him a look, which he’s already flicked his eyes off the road to catch. “Thereabouts.”

            Something in Jon’s throat goes thick when he realises this is extending beyond friendly banter.

            He’s never considered himself much good at flirting, but perhaps this is what it’s always like with Sansa – simultaneously effortless and exhilarating. She sighs heavily – _“but who says I’m looking, anyway? I’ve got no time; I spend it all with you and Margaery and Tyrion…”_ – and sinks back into the passenger seat. She’s got one elbow leaned against the lip of the closed window, and the opposite hand – the one closer to Jon – splayed over the pocket of her jeans, her thumb rounding the curve of her inner thigh.

            (Jon notices this in his periphery, but tries not to think about it too much.)

            ( _Fuck_ , he’s _got_ to reroute this conversation.)

            “Dinner, then.”

            From the corner of his eye, Jon sees Sansa nod, pressing her lips together as she breathes out.

            “Where are we thinking?”

*

“Took a while with Brienne,” Arya calls from the living room couch as Sansa steps in the door. Her sister turns, noticing both Arya and Gendry, who gives her a wave and a grin and who is becoming more of a permanent fixture by the day.

            “Yeah.”

            Arya narrows her eyes at the absent tone, at the hesitation. She watches as Sansa makes a beeline for the fridge, pouring herself a glass of Waitrose wine and determinedly not looking at Arya.

            “ _Sansa_ ,” she says, pitch rising interrogatively. “How was the meeting?”

            Her sister’s still got her back to her. “Why’d you say it like that?”

            “Because you’re avoiding it.” Arya lifts her feet out of Gendry’s lap and springs across the open room to sidle up to her sister at the bench. “You _didn’t_ go and see Brienne, did you? It’s nine o’clock and Highgarden’s got a show going tonight.”

            Finally, Sansa sighs. “Not as such, Arya. No.”

            Arya turns back to Gendry, and the two of them exchange a glance.

            “You were with Jon, then,” Arya says. “For three hours.”

            Sansa takes a sip of her wine, managing in her own unique way to worry her lip as she does so.

            “Yeah,” she admits. “So what if I was?”


	6. is it cool that i said all that? (is it chill that you're in my head?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, team! I said it wouldn't be long and then it was ages, but such is life. Hope you like this chapter!!
> 
> (Also – I've decided to write a oneshot prequel to this AU set while Jon and Sansa are in high school. The golden days of Flo and Jo. idk if you'd be interested in that? I've already started writing it lmao)

**vi. is it cool that i said all that? (is it chill that you’re in my head?)**

 

 _22:47_           Jon: _I’ve got seventeen texts from Gendry. Guessing Arya knows we didn’t see Brienne?_

 _22:50_           Sansa: _Can confirm our genius plan has been foiled._

 _22:51_ Jon: _Oh well – at least we got a good dinner out of it?_

 _22:54_           Sansa: _Yeah! Arya taking the piss is a fair trade-off for a good dinner with good company._

 _22:55_           Jon: _I’ll take that compliment._

 _22:55_           Jon: _Wait, what’s she taking the piss about?_

 _22:59_           Sansa: _Oh. You know what Arya’s like – what_ isn’t _she taking the piss about?_

 _23:01_           Jon: _That’s… fair._

 _23:23_           Jon: _Don’t get too stressed about that Politics assignment, by the way. You’ll ace it!_

 _23:25_           Sansa: _Oh, thanks – I hope so!_

 _23:25_ Sansa: _Also I know I’ll see you on Thursday, but in the meantime I just wanna say it was nice to hang out together somewhere that wasn’t a rehearsal room. It’s been a while._

 _23:26_           Jon: _Does my fancy car not count for anything? I’ll tell my aunt you said that. She might spontaneously combust._

 _23:26_          Jon: _No but in all seriousness – you’re right. I agree. We ought to do more as actual friends, rather than work mates._

 _23:27_ Jon: _With that said, I think you’re probably my best work mate._

 _23:27_           Jon: _Don’t tell Satin or Tormund._

 _23:29_           Sansa: _Can I tell Robb and Arya?_

 _23:31_           Jon: _Sans._

 _23:31_           Sansa: _No, you were being genuine, I’ll spare you._

 _23:31_           Sansa: _You’re probably my best work mate, too._

 _23:32_           Sansa: _(I’ve never worked with Dickon Tarly.)_

 _23:35_           Jon: _It’s the shoulders, isn’t it?_

 _23:36_           Sansa: _For what it’s worth, Jon, your shoulders are wonderful._

*

Sansa sets her phone down on her bedside table, flopping onto her back and letting out a deep sigh, sinking further into the mattress.

         She’s an idiot, first and foremost – and she knows it. The realisation that she’s in love with Jon – Robb’s-friend-Jon – _Sansa’s_ -friend-Jon – seems to have shaped her entire life since it occurred, not ten hours ago. She’s tempted to look back at the texts again, but she knows she’ll just read too much into them – like she did with the car ride to dinner.

         _God, you realise you’ve got a crush and then you just about pounce on him._

         She’s the absolute worst.

         Arya, as though able to sense her sister’s plight, gives one loud rap on Sansa’s door before entering. She’s wearing a majorly oversized Chicago Bulls jersey and not much else.

         “Gendry’s?” Sansa surmises.

         Arya nods. “He likes how it shows off his muscles.”

         Arya takes a seat beside Sansa, crossing her legs like a five-year-old. “With Jon’s flatmate out of the room – just between the two of us now – why _are_ you being so coy about having dinner with him? It wasn’t a date, was it?”

         “No,” Sansa insists, perhaps too quickly. “I don’t think it was. We’ve just made a bit of a tradition of driving home together, is all. And we extended that to dinner. It was a very normal, casual, platonic thing.”

         “Sans, listen to yourself. Simultaneously tragic and ridiculous.”

         “I am _not_ being – ”

         “If I didn’t know better I’d say you fancied him.”

         Sansa heaves out a sigh, hoping she isn’t going as red as her hair. “Of course not, Arya. Why would I fancy _Jon_?”

         “Sansa, this is very carefully orchestrated defensiveness.”

         She grabs a nearby pillow and covers her face with it. “It’s _not_.”

         “What was that?” Arya teases. “‘Jon’s hot’?”

         Sansa yanks the pillow away from herself and bolts up and around to face Arya. “Why won’t you _let this go_?”

         “Because it’s riling you up,” her sister says, shit-eating grin and all. After a moment, Arya sighs. “Look, whether you fancy Jon or you don’t, you could definitely do a lot worse.” ( _You have_ , they both think, but neither speak it.) “He’s a hard-working, dependable bloke. We’ve known him forever. Now I think on it,” Arya adds, “you’d better not break his heart – the family might shatter.”

         “You have to have someone’s heart in order to break it,” Sansa points out.

         Arya nods slowly. “Does it count if you had it once, though?”

*

“Fuck,” Jon says first, looking down at his email. “Fuck! _Fuck!_ ”

         “Finally realised you and I ought to?”

         (This from Gendry, fresh from the shower and leaning against the doorframe, having heard the outburst as he left the bathroom.)

         “No, you prick – Quentyn Martell’s just dropped out of the fucking show!”

         Gendry’s face falls. “ _What?_ ”

         “He’s got some other _merchant_ play he’s touring with overseas, and he’s decided to drop out!” Jon points manically at his computer screen, at the email, at the subject line under which Tyrion, Margaery, and Sansa have been CCed. “We’ve been in rehearsals for two fucking months and now he pulls _this shit!_ ” He cards his hands through his hair. “ _Fuck me_ , he’s a _principal_ – what are we – ? – _fuck_.”

         “Mate, that’s _shit_.”

         “Yes, it fucking _is_ ,” he exclaims, and, as if on cue, Jon’s phone begins blaring.

         _Tyrion._

         Gendry makes himself scarce as Jon picks up.

         “Tyrion!”

         “I take it by your panicked tone you’ve received Mr. Martell’s email.”

         “Damn right I have!” Jon replies, propriety and professionalism both just about forgotten.

         “Well, I’m not going to pretend I won’t be trying to destroy his theatrical career from this point on, but we’ll need to do something about this in the meantime.”

         “Yes. Of course. Have you spoken to Sansa or Margaery?”

         “Margaery’s called Sansa and she’s en route to Highgarden as we speak.”

         “I’ll head down there,” Jon says immediately, grabbing his laptop and darting across the room to retrieve his messenger bag.

         “Yes, I will, too – though I’ve got to stop in Knightsbridge first. Someone to pick up.”

*

When two Lannisters walk into the room instead of one, Sansa’s heart almost stops.

         Jaime is _so_ like Joffrey – the same blond hair, the same tall frame. Jaime has stubble that Joffrey never did, and he’s older, and his prosthetic hand is obviously not something he shares with his nephew, but the rest of him is so similar to Sansa’s ex-boyfriend she can feel her fists clenching, her fight-or-flight response involuntarily engaged. She’s ready for conflict. Is it just her that feels the air thick with it?

         A soft hand ghosts over her knee, and she averts her eye from Jaime to Jon. He’s looking over at her, and he doesn’t say anything; he just presses his lips together, gives a slight tilt of his head. _I’m here. We’ll figure out what’s going on._

         “To what do we owe the pleasure?” Margaery asks brightly, breaking the silence that had just about descended on them all.

         Tyrion cuts across his brother, speaking before Jaime can get any sound out of his open mouth. “I’ve brought a solution.”

         “A solution?” Sansa asks, her crisp alto slicing through the warm room like a shard of ice.

         “A replacement,” Tyrion amends.

         Suddenly what nerves she’d felt are coated in oil and set aflame. She’s determined, now. Determined and in charge and if Jaime remembers the girl she had been last year then that’s certainly a pale shade of what she is now.

         “We’ve built this production out of independence from the Court. Why would we bring in _another_ of its longstanding contractors?”

         Jaime glances at his brother, turning his gaze to Sansa and speaking before Tyrion has the chance to. “My… relationship with the Court – it’s not what it used to be. It hasn’t been that way for a long time.” He regards his prosthetic hand. “Since the accident, my sister and I haven’t quite seen eye to eye. In a way, Tyrion and I are both dead to her now.”

         Tyrion looks to Margaery, to Sansa, to Jon. “Isn’t he just a bundle of joy? This could end up quite fun, I think.”

         Sansa considers it. “I’d like to have you _read_ for the part, Jaime. I think you’ll understand that we need to.”

         “Yes, of course. I’m happy to.”

         Margaery produces her copy of the script and hands it to Jaime. “We’ll do the fealty scene – it’s page forty-eight.” He begins to flick through as Margaery adds, “I trust Tyrion’s given you a breakdown of the character on the way here?”

         “That he has,” Jaime replies, a pleasant glimmer of a handsome smile darting across his face.

         Jon hands Sansa his own script, already open to page forty-eight. “You read Naerys, Sans.”

         She nods as her fingers brush his.

*

 _Jaime will be great_ , Jon tells Sam that night, when he’s got the playwright around to give him the rundown of the day’s whirlwind. _He fits it. He’s what a king should look like._

 _After all, the ‘Hand’_ is _singular_ , says Gendry.

         Arya, perched on the arm of the couch, leans over and punches him.

*

Rehearsals over the next few weeks are an adjustment for everyone.

         Jaime works hard. He learns his lines and doesn’t turn up his nose at Robb and Arya’s routines. Fortunately, Quentyn had been left-handed, so the comparative lack of dexterity in Jaime’s prosthetic right has no impact on the choreography. He’s fought onstage a lot – Jaime – and one afternoon Robb begrudgingly admits to Jon that he’s grateful for the man’s insight. There’s only so much a passionate tactician and a Olympic-bound fencer can do, after all.

         Jon himself initially vows to keep an eye on Jaime – for Sansa’s sake, more than anything. She’d been screwed around by the Court – by the Lannisters – but she’d got past that now, almost better for it. Still, he’s attentive. He’s observant of it.

         He’s extremely surprised when Jaime strikes up companionable conversation one night in the Reach car park.

         “You’re doing an impeccable job, Jon.”

         Jon blinks. “Oh – uh – thank you.”

         “People can treat stage managers like they’re glorified set-movers, and I’ll admit I used to do it a bit myself, but – no – I mean, I saw my father direct countless productions, and he’d started out as a stage manager himself, so he was always very aware of them. It got me watching, too. There’s really no show – no nothing – without a decent stage manager.”

         Still somewhat flummoxed at this turn of events – still somewhat shocked that Jaime’s being _serious_ , and not some arrogant arse – Jon nods. “Well. I appreciate that, Jaime. Thank you. And thanks for stepping in.”

         Jaime looks like he’s going to say more, but he spots Sansa waving goodbye to her siblings, headed in their direction. With a slight smile on his face, he bids Jon farewell.

*

Sansa, primarily, is quick to learn that the Joffrey Jaime so resembles is what Joffrey  _should have been_.

         Jaime is an easy judge, yes, and may seem from afar as exceedingly arrogant as his nephew, but, upon closer encounters, he reveals a great earnestness – a capacity for love and consideration that Joffrey had so notably lacked.

         She discovers that she forgives Jaime as much as she has found it in her heart to forgive Tyrion. He has come to their aid, quite possibly at the cost of his relationship with his twin sister, from whom he has rarely been apart. It wouldn’t have been an easy choice – even if there had been a strain after he lost his hand. (That makes Sansa think of Bran, of his wheelchair, and she’s filled with rage each time because _how could you let someone out of your life when you’ve got so close to losing them once already?_ )

         She’s as content as she can be under the circumstances.

         The show goes on, and she moves with it.

*

 _13:26_           Sansa: _Arya’s having Gendry round for a movie – you coming along?_

 _13:29_           Jon: _Working, I’m afraid! Still have to do that sometimes, funnily enough._

 _13:29_ Jon: _Sorry, Sans – you’re on your own._

 _13:30_           Sansa: _Damn. Alright, have a good one!_

 _13:30_           Jon: _Good luck with Bonnie and Clyde._

*

 _20:08_           Jon: _How’s it going?_

 _20:09_           Sansa: _It’s actually fine, but I wouldn’t mind an escape._

 _20:09_           Sansa: _Busy at work?_

 _20:10_           Jon: _Nah, it’s a pretty quiet night._

 _20:10_           Sansa: _You on until ten?_

 _20:10_           Jon: _Twelve._

*

It’s just gone nine and Jon’s grabbing empty pint glasses from the tables around Free Folk when he turns and spots her.

         She’s settling herself down on one of the stools near the cider taps, her veil of coppery hair gleaming even in the low light. It’s warm enough now, in early May, that she can wear a short skirt, and Jon blinks away the thoughts that rise up within him at the sight of those legs – longer than his, longer than anyone’s have a right to be. He grips the empty glasses tighter and makes a beeline for the bar.

         “We’ve just brought out the limoncello,” he says by way of greeting, and Sansa’s eyes light up. He hopes it’s got more to do with him and less to do with the liqueur. “It’s like the universe knew you were coming.”

         She laughs, low and lyrical. “Brilliant. Let’s start with that, then.”

         Jon sets about mixing her a drink, and Sansa continues: “Things were getting pretty slow back home. Turns out there’s a limit on the amount of times you can watch _Kill Bill_ with your sister and her boyfriend.”

         He flashes her a grin, handing her drink over the bar. “And here I was, just thinking you missed me.”

         She takes a quick sip, holding his gaze. “There’s that, too.”

         “Knew it.”

*

Sansa’s a few drinks in and feeling brave for it. It’s nearly half ten and Jon’s been doing well to keep people out of her way – like he’d said earlier, it’s not a busy night, but she’s appreciative of the subtle way he pulls people’s pints and then sends them in the opposite direction. She’s never been on a night out solo: at first it was always coddling from Joffrey, and with the size of the city it’s never felt safe not having Robb or Arya or one of the Tyrells with her.

         But Jon’s here, now. Manning the fort and keeping her safe.

         He’s polishing glasses and the conversation that had turned to the play –

         _Thanks so much for helping me solve the armour dilemma. Jeyne and I tested out some options with Brienne and it’s looking fantastic._

         _No, of course, I’m happy to help._

         – has now petered out, in favour of the occasional in-joke and companionable silence. But she’s tired of silence. Jon is _right there_ in that _tight shirt_ and even the subtle flex of his biceps as he runs the white cloth over the rim of each glass is just about killing her.

         “I heard a story about you the other week, y’know.”

         Jon, crouching to deposit glasses in their crate, raises his eyebrows. “Oh?”

         “Mhm.”

         She lets out a chuckle, low and breezy. She feels like her seventeen-year-old self now, cat with the canary, aware of the perfectly manicured upper hand she’s got. Perhaps it’s the alcohol. (And perhaps it _is_ , but she’s not unlikely to have pulled a stunt like this sober, with how she’s been feeling the past few weeks.)

         “Apparently you used to be in love with me.”

         The back of Jon’s head collides with the counter.

         “ _Shit_ ,” he says, on impact, and Sansa’s torn between apologising and appreciating it. Jon straightens up, rubbing the sore spot. His eyes are still narrowed in a wince when he asks her, “Who told you that, then?”

         “Arya,” Sansa says, trying for blasé. “She said she figured it out.”

         “Well, she has to have been a secret sleuth about it because she couldn’t have heard anything. I’ve certainly never said anything to anyone.” Jon furrows his brow. “When was I apparently in love with you?”

         “High school,” she tells him, sipping her drink again. “ _Flo_ _and Jo_ days. Pre-uni, pre-Ygritte.”

         Jon runs a hand over his face, which has gone red – Sansa wonders if it’s physical pain or emotional embarrassment. “Well.”

         _Oh, God, he wasn’t. She’s totally miscalculated this whole thing._

         “Don’t worry, Jon. I’m an easy person to love. Better men than you have succumbed.”

         His eyes flick to hers and she backtracks.

         “Well. No. That’s not true. No one’s better than you. But the point still stands.”

         He chuckles. “Sure.”

         “Were you, then?” (She finds it within herself to joke.)

         “Was I in love with you?”

         “Yeah.”

         Jon sighs, still half-smiling. “I don’t… I think everyone was half in love with you, Sans. But, where I was concerned, you were Robb’s sister, and – ”

         _Robb’s-sister-Sansa_ –

         “Y’know, limited selection,” he finishes, deciding to tease. “It was you or Beth Cassel, and – ”

         “ – and you’ve got a thing for redheads,” Sansa interjects, downing the dregs of her latest drink. “I remember Ygritte.”

         _Three Christmases ago, when you were only back three days; when she came and picked you up in that truck of hers._

         Jon gets called away down the bar, and Sansa’s slightly glad for it. She’s tipsy; tipsy and warm – tipsy and warm, and somewhat sleepy, and completely aware that she enjoys toeing this line between friendship and flirting far more than she probably should.

*

She sticks around until Jon finishes his shift, by which time Satin has given her a bowl of hot chips because he _accidentally_ made too many, and Sansa has had two more drinks – trading limoncello for lemonade. (There’s a rehearsal tomorrow, she reasons.)

         Jon drives her home, and when he hasn’t received a text confirming Gendry’s whereabouts, he accompanies Sansa up to her flat. They find Gendry fast asleep on the couch with Arya curled up against him.

         “ _Jon_ ,” she says in her best muted exclamation.

         “ _Arya_ ,” he echoes. Pointing to Gendry, he adds, “I see he’s dead to the world.”

         Arya nods.

         “So how was work, then? Sansa didn’t test your patience too much?”

         Sansa rolls her eyes, setting her purse down and leaning against the kitchen bench to slip her shoes off.

         “Nah, I’m used to her by now.”

         There’s a conspiratorial chuckle between the two of them – Jon and Arya – thick as thieves, like old times.

         “She _did_ get absolutely hammered, though,” Jon jokes.

         “Oh, yeah, she would’ve.”

         “You should’ve seen her when Satin gave her some chips – smiled as wide as Dopey from Snow White.”

         “You staying the night, then?” Arya asks casually, glancing from her sister to Jon.

         “Oh – uh – ”

         “Because I seriously doubt Gendry’s leaving the couch any time soon.”

         Jon laughs at her expression. “Another time I would – I promise – but Edd’s left his key at home and needs someone to let him in tomorrow morning. Clearly,” he points to the couch, “it won’t be Waters. So I’d better handle it.”

         “You sure?” Arya presses. “It’s ages to yours. You could kill two birds with one stone and force Gendry to get you McDonald’s tomorrow morning.”

         “Tempting,” says Jon, though Sansa’s seen his arms and privately thinks he probably wouldn’t know McDonald’s if it bit him on the nose. “Don’t know if there’s space, though – if the couch is gone.”

         Arya shrugs. “Sansa’s got a Queen.”

         _Heavens, Arya, make your ulterior motives a bit more blatant_. Sansa thinks the earth opening up and swallowing her whole might be easier than this.

         Jon glances at her, narrowing his eyes. “Sans, the last thing you’ll want to wake up to tomorrow morning is me in the bed, snoring in your ear. For the sake of the sanity of everyone involved in tomorrow’s rehearsal, I reckon I shouldn’t subject you to that.”

         _You’ve already shared a couch_ , says Arya, but Sansa and Jon seem to have developed selective hearing.

         “ _Do_ you snore?” Sansa asks.

         “You’re not going to find out.”

         “You shouldn’t beat yourself up,” she says, fond and teasing, watching him smile and unconsciously reflecting it. “I bet you’re a glorious sight to wake up to.”

         “Yeah, back at ya, Dopey.”

         He _does_ go home, in the end, if only because Edd will kill him if he doesn’t.

         Arya gives Sansa shit about the night until they both fall asleep.

*

Robb watches his best mate follow Jaime from the rehearsal room, assisting Brienne in the unloading of various props from the truck that’s just pulled up outside the Reach. “Jon’s been smiling a lot the past few months – it’s weird.”

         Sansa raises an eyebrow, distracted from her email to Jeyne Poole. “Hasn’t Jon always been smiling?”

         “No,” Robb tells her. He’s got the tone of someone ever authoritative on their best friend. “He’s a brooder, from way back. It’s a Jon Snow trademark.”

         Sansa admits she’d thought the same thing before the new year.

         “See? I’m right. The bloke limits smiles strictly to birthdays, Christmases, and whenever Sam tells a joke that nobody else’s going to pity him enough to laugh at.”

         “First of all, that’s awful, Robb. Second of all, it’s wildly inaccurate.”

         “Oh, I’d argue the contrary,” says Tyrion, who sits beside Sansa in his director's chair. “Perhaps you’re both right.”

         “And how d’you figure that?” Robb asks, tucking his sword through one of his belt loops and crossing his arms.

         “A man’s inclination to pouting may launch itself directly out a window when a _particular kind of woman_ looks his way.”

         When his meaning sinks in, Sansa’s confident her face goes as red as her hair.

         Robb seems too focused on Tyrion to notice. “What are you implying with that, then?”

         “I’m implying something quite specific,” says Tyrion. “I didn’t think it was hard to catch.”

         “It wasn’t,” Robb insists, now contemplative. “I’m just trying to weigh it up.”

         “There’s no need to do that, Robb,” Sansa says curtly. “There’s nothing to weigh.”

         “I don’t know – him fancying you makes more sense than just being really jazzed about theatre.”

         “ _Excuse me?_ ”

         “You know what I mean, Sans. _You’re_ really jazzed about theatre, but Jon’s, like – he’s really jazzed about advocacy, and the Westeros system of checks and balances. Law stuff. Dour.”

         “You seem to think he’s awfully boring, for someone who’s meant to be your best mate.”

         “He’s not boring,” Robb amends. “But I’d not exactly look at him and go, ‘oh, shit, that’s Jon Snow – the life of the party’, would I?”

         “So, because of an apparently just-discovered affinity for smiling, what leaps immediately to mind is” – she puts on an obnoxious baritone – “‘Jon must fancy my theatrically-inclined baby sister’?! Mental.”

         Jon walks in, then, with a long-sword in hand, having obviously caught the end of her remark. He’s smirking, and Sansa spots what is perhaps a faint blush. “Still talking about how you think I loved you in high school, Sans? I’ll start thinking _you_ loved _me_ soon.”

         Tyrion does his best to cover Robb’s snort with a hearty cough.

         Sansa just rolls her eyes. “Of course I did, Jon. You were my knight in scuffed black trainers.”


	7. at least I did one thing right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya girl is back!! I didn't think it'd be as long as it has been, but hey! Whaddaya gonna do!
> 
> Hope those of you who celebrate the holiday season around this time of year had a good one!! x

**vii. at least I did one thing right**

 

The rest of May is consumed by rehearsals and university exams. Jon and Robb are sitting their last, and when the former has to miss a rehearsal in favour of his final one – his “final final”, which Edd and Gendry had shared a laugh at – it’s Sansa who picks up the rehearsal report. Jon’s as apologetic as it’s possible to be ( _tell everyone I’m so sorry; the university won’t reschedule exams for anything less than a death, and that’s probably your own_ ), but there are no disasters without him, except perhaps the hand cramp Sansa gets from doubling her amount of frantic note-taking.

*

June rolls around, and the show opens in a month.

            Arya starts showing up to rehearsals without Robb, who is preparing to move to Glasgow for work. It’s closer to home and he starts the week after graduation and he’ll come back down to see the play but all of his time and effort is now going towards packing boxes and changing addresses.

            His current flatmate – a friend from home named Theon who has trailed after Robb throughout their lives, always a step behind and reaching out – has managed to find a job in Glasgow, too, so they’ll have each other at the very least, and Jon, who had done a similar thing at eighteen, allowing his life plans to be tinted with the desire to maintain his and Robb’s pseudo-brotherhood, knows it’s the right move for Robb to make. He’ll miss him, of course, but that doesn’t change anything. The wage Robb’ll get at this job is incredibly comfortable for a new grad, and it’s the parent company of various independent start-ups, so it’s a great strategic place for Robb to be. He talks about it endlessly to anyone who will listen: how excited he is – how he gets to schmooze and _lead_ and make things happen. (Arya jokes that she’ll be glad to be rid of him, but the maps and prospective flight itineraries and train fares Sansa has seen littered around the flat say otherwise.)

            Jon gets his results and an inundation of job offers.

            He’s shocked by the latter, and pleased with the former, and the first person he wants to talk to about any of it is Sansa. He finds her, on this particular Tuesday, in a sewing room at Highgarden Theatre, where she’s dodging the _Tourney at Ashford_ personnel currently in season and swarming the theatre.

            She’s got her head bent over her work, long copper hair flowing down her back as much a cape as the garment in front of her. It’s a lavish thing, for a showy soldier. (Jon thinks it might be one of Jaime’s.) She turns when she hears the creak of the door opening, the mechanical heartbeat of the sewing machine stuttering to a stop.

            “Hello!” she greets him brightly. “What’s this you wanted to talk to me about, then?”

            Sansa motions for him to take the stool beside her, and Jon does so as he explains: “I’ve, uh, I’ve got my results back – which I’ve already told you – but my email’s going mad with job offers, and I kind of don’t know what to do.”

            Sansa – turned directly toward him, the sewing machine forgotten – beams. “Jon, that’s _fantastic!_ ” She leans forward and grabs his hands with both of hers, thumbs sweeping softly across his skin. (She’s barely touched him, Jon now realises. God, he wishes she’d do more of it.) “That’s so, so, so good.”

            He can’t keep a smile off his face. “Thanks – thank you, Sansa.”

            “Do you know which firm you’re going to go with? Are they in London? Or are you jumping ship like Robb and abandoning us for up north?”

            Jon’s nearly overwhelmed by how focused her eyes are on him, clear and blue and sparkling in the sewing room light. “No, I’m staying here, I think. It’s easier if I don’t have to move, and all my legal contacts are here.”

            Sansa’s smile widens almost imperceptibly.

            “And I don’t know which offer to take,” Jon adds. “I’ll have to get back to people and see how they feel about not getting me until August.”

            “You don’t exactly get summer holidays from adult life,” Sansa agrees, chuckling.

            “No,” Jon says, and he absentmindedly laces Sansa’s fingers in his. (Her eyes flick down, and she blinks twice, but she doesn’t move to change things.) “No, you don’t.”

            “Didn’t you intern with a firm last summer? I think Robb said something like that.”

            Jon nods. He explains about Mormont & Rayder’s specialisations – criminal and immigration law – and that it’d mean a lifetime of hard decisions ( _you’re good with those, though_ , says Sansa, encouragingly as ever). He explains that it’s a small firm up in North London and if he played his cards right he’d be rising through the ranks in no time. He explains that part of him is terrified at the prospect of actualising something he’s been working toward so long.

            “That’s only part of you, though,” Sansa tells him. “I bet the rest of you can’t wait.”

            “Well, you’re right, there.” (She always is, though, isn’t she?)

            Jon’s excited for a multitude of reasons – not just because he’ll be a proper, practicing lawyer. He’ll be able to pay off the loan Ned just about forced into his bank account to help with university (despite Ned insisting that it wasn’t to be paid back), and he’ll be able to fix the heating in the flat to last through the winter – or maybe he’ll cover the difference for a flat that doesn’t need its heating fixed, if Edd and Gendry want to…

            “D’you reckon you’ll go with them, then?” Sansa asks. “Mormont and that.”

            “I think so,” Jon says. “I know how everything works there, and I was good at it, and I learned a lot from them. And the other firms I’ve had offers from are the same ones I turned down the summer clerk job for – so if they were wrong then, I don’t know that anything will have changed.”

            Sansa nods. She squeezes his hands. “This is so _great_ , Jon! I’m so happy for you!”

            Jon can feel his eyes crinkling up in the corners, and he wouldn’t be surprised if his ears are pink. They’ve seemed to be that a lot these past few months, especially around Sansa.

            Her phone buzzes, so he lets go of her, missing her fingers as soon as they leave his.

            “Jeyne’s finished mocking up all the armour and it’ll be at the Reach for the promo shoot this weekend!”

            Her bright voice is lit slightly differently, and it triggers something in Jon: he imagines her telling him these things in some nondescript apartment, when he’s just got home and hung up his messenger bag and she’s sat at the kitchen table, her hair tied back and her email open; or when he’s woken up beside her in their bed, a fan of red hair tickling the end of his nose; or when he’s folding laundry and she’s just ducked out of the bathroom, her toothbrush and mouth still foamy, to tell him the news. Jon’s always known he was in love with her but now he’s frighteningly aware of it.

            “Oh – brilliant!”

            “It is,” Sansa says, pocketing her phone and turning back to him. “Now, I’m just about done with hemming this for Jaime” – so Jon is right, and it _is_ for the blond man, and Sansa doesn’t seem to be letting it down or sewing it higher, which makes Jon grateful that Jaime and Quentyn are matched for height – “but I want to celebrate this – your imminent employment and wonderful success – so, if you’re able to, can you keep me company for five minutes? And then we can go and do whatever you’d like.”

            Jon is confident that they won’t _quite_ end up doing whatever he’d like, but he sits contentedly with her while she finishes sewing, and then they catch the tube to a pub about a mile from Jon’s flat, which Sansa insists has been recommended to her and which Jon understands as a marriage between her taste and his – so it’s for his sake that she does this.

            (And if the tube is crowded with commuters, now, at the bridge between afternoon and evening, and Jon has to place a hand in the small of Sansa’s back to keep her steady when the train lurches to a halt, then it’s just reciprocation – for _her_ sake that he does _this_.)

            They manage to snag two stools at a high wooden table at the end of the pub, only big enough for two. Sansa insists on buying the first round; she gets Jon a pint of ale and herself the sweetest cider on tap, and they split a bowl of chips between them as though it’s something they’ve always done.

            “Arya’s wondering if I’ll be home for tea,” Sansa says lightly, setting her half-empty glass down and eyeing the text in question.

            Jon can’t decipher if there’s something deeper to the statement or if it means just that.

            “You could ask her to come meet us,” Jon offers.

            Sansa gives a slight nod at that, still noncommittal. “I _could_.”

            “ _Or_ ,” Jon says, catching her drift now, “you could spare her, because she’s got seven hours of training tomorrow, and you’re extremely busy celebrating the success of your high-school-chauffeur-turned-colleague-and-lawyer.”

            Sansa laughs. “When you say it like that, it sounds like I’m your client.”

            “Rubbish. You’re not enough work for that.”

            “Too much pleasure?”

            Jon just about chokes on a chip. He takes a sip of ale to wash it down and nods. “Sure. Let’s say that.”

            “Too much _play_ ,” Sansa adds, as indulgently as anyone wielding a pun.

            Jon sighs. “Ha-ha.”

            They end up getting more chips, and another pint each, and Jon mourns his upcoming last shift at Free Folk, and Sansa asks if he’ll miss working there. He laughs at that. He tells her he’ll miss Satin and Tormund, but not much else. Sansa says she’ll miss going there – she was only really in it for one bartender, after all, _and now what’s the point?_

*

As soon as _Ashford_ ’s packed out of the theatre, Margaery piles their production in.

            Set building is three days of blood, sweat, and tears, spanning from the scene dock to the truck-sized work lift to the wings and the boards of the stage itself. Sansa’s overwhelmed and overjoyed to see a set _she_ designed come into existence, with all its flies and facades that come forth and recede as necessary.

            Jon’s discoveries, actual construction workers Pyp and Grenn, prove invaluable – as do Gendry’s welding skills. Brienne, finished with her prop duties, takes on heavy lifting and rigging up the fly system, with the help of Renly and Loras, who know the space best of anyone.

            ( _Great hammering_ , a smirking Loras tells Renly. _Almost as good as old Robert used to be._

            Renly laughs, chucking back, _Great nailing_.

            _You know, keep up the manual labour_ , Loras suggests, _and soon you’ll look exactly like Gendry._ )

            Robb shows up for half of the last day and he and Jon sand down all of the hard surfaces, with Arya popping in at lunchtime with a crate of sweet treats from her friend known only as Hot Pie – “these your work?” Gendry asks his girlfriend, icing sugar caught on his top lip, and Arya, brushing it off, scoffs. “Fuck no, my cooking’s fatal, Gendry.”

            She sticks around for the next couple of hours to sand all the nooks the boys couldn’t get to, and before she and Robb head out they slap on the undercoat for Sansa’s painting the following day.

*

“ _So_ ,” Robb says, settling himself down beside Jon on the couch in Robb’s now-sparsely-furnished flat, about two and a half weeks from opening night. “ _Mate_.” He hands Jon his beer, and Jon presses _play_ on their film. The title sequence starts to ring through the background as Robb finishes his thought: “When were you going to tell me about you fancying Sansa?”

            Jon chokes on his beer, the carbonation of it coming up through his nose. “ _Oh_ – uh – wha - uh – _what?_ ” he splutters.

            Robb swigs his own beer, observing Jon with mirth, fondness, and something akin to pity. “It’s alright; I just thought I’d ask you about it, because you hadn’t told me.”

            Jon wipes his nose. He tries to sniff away the pain. “Uh… how – how’d you find out?”

            “Tyrion said something ages ago,” Robb shrugs. “I’ve been mulling it over for a bit and then a whole lot of stuff made sense. I would’ve said something earlier, but – y’know – we had exams and all that.” He laughs at Jon, who still looks a bit like a deer in the headlights. “Relax, mate. I’m not gonna hit you.”

            Jon lets out a shaky laugh. “You always seemed half a second from hitting Joffrey.”

            “Joffrey was an _arse_ , though,” Robb says, scrunching up his nose. “What would it say about my judgment if my best mate was the kind of bloke I couldn’t trust to treat his girlfriend right? Regardless of whether or not she’s my sister.”

            “That… makes sense.”

            “’Course it does.” Robb leans back into the couch. “Plus, Sansa’s a Stark. Every one of us is a catch, so I don’t blame you.”

            Jon’s laugh is easier this time. “Sure.” He takes a proper sip of his beer, not sending it halfway into his sinuses this time, and then pales. “She… she doesn’t know, does she?”

            Robb places a comforting hand on Jon’s knee. “You’ve done a shit job of hiding it, mate. You taxi her around any chance you can get, and you’ve been hanging out with her loads, and you tell her about more stuff than you tell me, and you look at her in a way that even that little emoji with the hearts for eyes can’t match for tenderness. Seriously. Arya thinks it’s ridiculous, and I can’t tell if it’s cute or if I feel sorry for you.”

            “Oh. Well. Brilliant.”

            “Oh, don’t sound so _glum_.”

            “‘Glum’?”

            “Yes. _Glum_. You sound like a sad sack.”

            “Thanks.”

            “Y’know what?” Robb says, sounding more sympathetic. “I think they’re casting a live-action _Winnie the Pooh_. Shall I ask Margaery to call some people and have you put down for Eeyore?”

            Jon shoves him.

            “ _Oi!_ ”

*

Three complementary tickets are dispensed to each member of the production team, and Margaery asks them to tell her who will be using them and when by the time tech week draws to a close. Everyone Jon knows is associated with the show, in some capacity, so he’s got no idea who to offer his tickets to – unless perhaps a few of the Starks want to go more than once? – but the idea comes to him when Gendry’s foster family drop by the flat for lunch.

            Gendry’s going to the show on one of Arya’s complementary tickets, Jon knows, so when he’s given Shireen the synopsis and seen her eyes go as wide and bright as a primary school kid on Christmas morning, he offers his own comps to her and to Davos.

            “Bring a friend with you, if you like,” he tells Shireen nonchalantly, drying the dishes that Edd had set in the rack before leaving for work.

            Shireen beams, and Davos’ brow knits together. “Don’t you want to invite your aunt?”

            “Rubbish,” says Jon, with a wink to Shireen. “If she owns half the city, she can certainly afford a ticket to the theatre.”

*

Tech week arrives with just about everything but (actual) fire and (actual) blood.

            Tyrion brings in a freelance tech manager he’s known for years, and Bronn’s brash and unorthodox but he gets the job done where light and sound are concerned, and Jon doesn’t mind swearing through the comms headsets as long as no one’s missed a cue. It’s a week of long hours, of hard work; once they get the costumes going, too, things don’t let up.

            Sansa’s got Jeyne handling the quick-changes on stage left, including several racks of clothing and syringes filled with fake blood, so that actors can apply it themselves using a small blue light and a mirror Sansa set up in the wings.

            Edd, who Jon has appointed Assistant Stage Manager, has the headset on Jeyne’s side, and Yoren’s over there to manage the movement of set pieces.

            The Waif – Sansa still doesn’t know her real name, but she respects that – is on hand, unseen but appearing as soon as she’s needed, applying moulds of grotesque wounds and half-masks of gore with the lightest of touches.

            Sansa positions herself on stage right, with the same costume racks and supplies of fake blood. She’s seven feet from Jon’s side-of-stage station, where he’s permanently hunched over an extremely elaborate stage manager’s script, filled with every cue, every costume, every bit of blocking. Dressed as all stagehands and backstage personnel are, in theatre blacks, he’s got a lamp overhead and a headset on and when he’s not speaking orders into the headset mic he’s whisper-shouting over his shoulder to the right-side stagehands, Pyp – who, like Yoren, places set pieces ( _“It’s a bloody laugh being crouched down behind that rock, mate, when Lannister’s making his big speech and everyone’s yelling and it’s got all the epic lighting, and all I can see is polystyrene and the underside of his arse…”_ ) – and Grenn, who is the beefiest of the stagehands, and mans the flies because of it.

*

The last run of the show before opening – at the end of June, two nights before the preview performance for sponsors and families – feels, for all the times they’ve done it before, like something new. A new beast, a juggernaut – a breath of life, vibrant and humming.

            Before scene three hits, Jon looks over to Sansa, a few feet away, half-masked by one of the flies as she hands a shirtless Jaime his chainmail and costume chest-plate. He pulls on the former and she sets about fastening the latter. Once she’s got that hooked in place, she drapes his cloak over his shoulders; Jaime clasps it together in the front. Sansa gives him two quick taps, as if to say he’s ready to go, and Jaime murmurs a warm _thanks, Sansa_ over his shoulder as he steps out.

            “Standby on L-X-seventeen.”

            _L-X-seventeen standing by_ , Bronn responds.

            Jon does his mental countdown, eyes on the onstage action, and then speaks down the comms. “L-X-seventeen, go.”

            The intermission arrives and swathes of bloodied soldiers charge backstage, about to shower in wet wipes; Pyp and Grenn grab industrial mops and set about cleaning the stage. Yoren follows with a similarly large broom-type instrument, drying the boards.

            Brienne places props, and Edd and Jon convene to double check that everything they need for the next Act is in place. Sansa and Jeyne fold used costumes from side-of-stage quick-changes and prep new ones, and it’s an established rhythm by now, but it still passes in a flash.

            It feels similarly quick when the final blackout comes. The curtain goes down and Sansa bursts into tears.

            Actors notice, as they leave the stage (Shae, who plays one of the handmaidens, rubs her arm and asks if she’s alright; Jaime’s eyes soften at the sight of her and, as he wraps an arm around her shoulders, he lets out a comforting _oh, Sansa_ ), but she shoos them away – _go get out of costumes and wait in the green room for Tyrion_. Pyp and Grenn clear out with a cough and a _yes, green room, let’s grab the lads_ , just as Jon sheds his headset.

            His eyes find Sansa and her breathing and her eyes, wiped and still welling, and he gasps gently, out of his seat and approaching her before he can process a coherent thought. “Why’re you… why’re you crying, Sans?”

            “Because I’m being an idiot,” she sniffs, laughing a little.

            “No – no, you’re not – ”

            “ – Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” she tells him, “I’m just – overwhelmed!” She laughs again, as Jon’s hands skate over her upper arms, up and down, soothing her. “We’ve… this is _Sam’s_ script, and I just – cold-called a bunch of people, after New Year – and our stagehands are _builders_ and _customs officers_ – and I don’t know the Waif’s _name_ – and Robb and Arya used to play-fight in our living room back home but now _look_ at what they’ve _done_ – and – ” (She’s half back to bawling now.) “ – I can’t believe this has happened.”

            Jon smiles at her, unable to help it; he thinks of what Robb said a fortnight ago, about tenderness. “But it _has_ ,” he tells her. “It _has_ happened. Because of you.”

            She slowly returns his smile, and with it comes a watery laugh almost mistakable for a cough. “I had so much help.”

            “Sure, but who got everyone to agree? Who had contacts at Highgarden and got Tyrion and a bunch of northern numpties to work together?” Jon pulls her into his arms, shifting his weight onto his toes so to press a kiss to her forehead. “It’s all you, Sans. You’re calling the shots.”

            She nods, and she pulls away from Jon in order to wipe her eyes. She sniffs, lets out a deep, calming breath. “And you know what?” she says levelly, almost triumphant. “Cersei and Joffrey can make their snide remarks – about me or about needing Tyrion or Jaime or _whoever_ in order to succeed. I know they’re wrong.”

            “They _are_ ,” Jon urges.

            “Because I didn’t go crying for help,” Sansa continues. “ _They_ came to _me_.”

            “They did.”

            “Because of something _I_ was doing.”

            “You’re right.”

            “I _am_ ,” Sansa says, nodding. “And I can be proud of that.”

            Jon nods, too. “Absolutely.”

            She grins at him. “I needed to tell myself that, I think.”

            ( _Because I spent so long being told I was under Cersei’s wing when really I was under her thumb._ )

            Edd appears at the exit door. “Tyrion’s got food and stuff in the green room… if you… want.”

            Sansa nods and Jon says, “Yeah – brilliant – great,” and they follow him down.


	8. on the day that the dance is over, I will be your song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, first off, I want to say I am SORRY I am absolute TRASH I got so daunted by the prospect of writing this chapter that I went into executive dysfunction and just,,,, didn't write it. Plus I moved to Dublin to study for a year and also released a book of poetry, which is called Letters and which you can check out if ya follow this link: http://a.co/8XYBR0u – Once again, many apologies. But it's here now? And I hope you like it?
> 
> The last chapter will be a wee epilogue of sorts, and then I'll be coming out with The Prequel That Was Promised, which I am so thrilled to be writing, and which is about halfway finished already. (I jumped between writing it and writing this, and then it started getting way too exciting, and I had to pull myself back because it can't be released if this isn't!)
> 
> ENJOY! LOVE YOU LOTS! (And soz again lmao I'd hate me if I were reading me) (Excuse any egregious typos/changes in tone, it's like, 2am lol) xx

**viii. on the day that the dance is over, I will be your song**

 

When Sansa looks back on that July, she’ll say all her dreams came true at once.

            She spends a lot of the month giddy, or almost too busy to process nervousness, but that’s part of the charm of it. She’s doing everything she’s ever wanted to do, in a city she’s always loved – it’s thrown her through the ringer, but she feels like she’s conquered it now.

            She gets home near – or past – midnight half the time, and Jon always stops to make sure she’s inside before he drives off, the often-busy street deserted enough at their time of night to do so.

            It’s a month of highs and… just that, really. But she deserves it. She deserves it, and she knows that in her soul.

*

After their first official open-to-the-public performance, Robb finds Jon and Sansa in the laundry room. Sansa’s sorting costumes into hand-wash and machine-wash piles and Jon’s filling up a deep plastic tub for the former items, and it all seems ridiculous to Robb when their entire family (down for opening night and two impending graduation ceremonies) – plus Gendry and Talisa – is outside, ready to gush with praise.

            “Margaery told me you’d be here,” he says by way of greeting. “Everyone’s out in the bar area, waiting.”

            “I’ve got to sort this first,” Sansa replies, gesturing to the two heaps in front of her. Of course, Sansa would love nothing more than to collapse into her father’s arms and have her mother brush her hair out like when she was a kid, but she can’t exactly drop the ball now. “I can’t just leave costumes unwashed after the first night of the season – we’ve got seven more shows this week alone.”

            “You should go,” Jon tells her, lifting the large hand-wash pile into the warm, sudsy water of the tub. “Seriously – I can take care of this. It’s opening night! Your big professional gig! Go enjoy it.” He opens one of the industrial washing machines and begins piling costumes into it as though to illustrate the point.

            Sansa shakes her head. “That’s not fair – they’ll be wanting to see you, too.”

            “I’ll be there soon,” Jon insists. “ _Seriously_ – go and let people gush over your job well done.”

            Robb, still leaning against the threshold, clears his throat and moves further into the room. “It’s also _your_ job well done, Snow.” He unclasps the cuffs of his undoubtedly expensive button-down and pushes the sleeves roughly up his arms. “These all air-dry, then?” He surmises, gesturing to the contents of the tub. “Pass us that clothes horse, Sans.”

            Jeyne Poole pops in a few minutes later to tell Sansa that everything in each dressing room is appropriately folded, hung, and – where necessary – Febreezed. Jon’s hand-wash is done in ten minutes, and once Robb has located clothes pegs, he’s hung everything almost faster than Jon’s handed it to him. Sansa, in the meantime, watches the washing machine with an almost defeated air.

            “Aren’t your family here, Sansa?” Jeyne asks upon her second trip past. She’s got her handbag in hand, clearly ready to leave for the night.

            “Yes,” Sansa replies, trying to keep the lamentation from her tone.

            Jeyne looks surprised. “What are you three doing in here, then?” She dodges the clothes horse, Robb, and an unused ironing board. “I’ll wait for that,” she says, pointing to the _19:07_ counting down on the washing machine. “Seriously – I’m not doing anything. All it needs is to be transferred to the dryer, right? I’ve got it. I’ll hang it all up when it’s done.”

            Sansa, always shocked by the fact that there _are_ people who are kind and _will_ do things for her if she asks, feels her jaw drop open. “ _Yes_. If you’re sure, of course – ”

            “ – Yeah, of course. Someone’s coming to meet me but I told them half eleven, so it’s fine.”

            “ _Legend_ ,” Robb announces, simultaneously with Jon’s words of thanks. Jeyne waves them off and practically pushes them out the door, Sansa echoing _thank you_ and _you’re wonderful_ all the while.

*

Ned lights up at the sight of them, and by the time Catelyn has wrangled Rickon out of Arya’s headlock, she greets the new trio with similar warmth.

            “I am so _proud_ of you,” she tells Sansa, squeezing her daughter’s hand tightly with her own.

            Ned, who has Sansa under one arm and Jon under the other, nods with a unique brand of paternal certainty he has absolute ownership of. “It was very, very good.”

            Then Margaery appears, telling them all there’s a round at the bar for the Starks ( _Jon included, of course_ , she winks), on the house, and – understandably – it’s all a bit busier after that.

            “It suppose it did make me a little sad, Sansa,” Catelyn tells Sansa, when the two of them have finally got a moment alone.

            She tears her eyes from Gendry, Arya, and Jon across the room, almost in tears of laughter at something Bran’s said, and raises her eyebrows. “What did, Mum?”

            “The fact you’ve done so much work on this, right from the beginning, and you’re never going to get to see it the way the audience does. You deserve to see the end product, instead of rushing around backstage all the time.”

            And Sansa supposes she can see where her mother is right – but what lines her gut is a different feeling altogether. Rather than mourning the fact that she’ll never see the set she designed in action, with her lighting and the actors in costumes she put together (it occurs to her then that, really, everything onstage is born of her), she delights in the fact she gets to see the mechanisms behind it all: the quick-changes, the prop transfers, the small moment of clarity she gets fastening the plastic pouch of fake blood in its place near a chink in Jaime’s armour.

            “I _do_ get the end product, Mum,” she says. “Mine just puts me more in the thick of it than yours. I don’t mind.”

            Catelyn smiles, reaching out and squeezing Sansa’s hand again. “As long as you’re happy, Sansa. That’s what matters to me.”

            And she _is_ happy, Sansa thinks. She’s possibly the happiest she’s ever been.

*

Robb graduates on a warm Wednesday morning the following week. His walk across the stage is all resplendent assuredness, a prince leading the charge, but the smile on his face as he collects his diploma and the slight quiver to his otherwise solid handshake suggest he’s got as many emotions whirling inside him as the northern family that dominates the seventh row.

            Bran, on the end of the wheelchair-accessible row, films the whole thing on his phone. Ned’s often-stoic disposition is shed in favour of a beam of pride as he watches his son, in the icy, grey-trimmed Commerce regalia that Robb dons best of his peers. Catelyn is brimming with tears and with pride, pride for her boy, her lovely boy, her Robb. She clasps hands with Sansa, whose heart drums against the back of her tongue. Like the rest of her siblings, Sansa’s always felt a very unique adoration for Robb – the oldest, the leader, the one who will save them from anything.

            It’s a similar state of hero worship to the one Jon has perpetually harboured, to some degree. He’s in the spot beside Sansa, yet to go through his own graduation ceremony but thrilled to be amongst the Starks at this one. He knows that every step Robb takes toward that diploma is a step away from Jon himself, but his mourning is overpowered by the joy that funnels from Robb’s grin straight into Jon’s chest.

            Arya, on Jon’s other side, bursts into tears when her brother’s name is called. He goes up, and Rickon, who now matches Jon for height (if he hasn’t overtaken him), wraps an arm around her.

            _I’ve barely had him back a year_ , she sniffs. _And now he’s running off again_.

            Jon’s chest tightens at that. He lifts a hand, musses up Arya’s cropped hair, and says, “Bloody traitor, isn’t he?”

            She snorts, smiling in spite of the waterworks. “At least I’ll still have you.”

            “Yeah, kid. You’ve always got me.”

*

In all truth, Jon almost doesn’t go to his own graduation. It’s a two-show day, with only a couple of hours between his ceremony and the curtain going up on the matinee, but when he casually mentions this to Arya he almost gets himself a punch in the face.

            “I thought you didn’t like graduation ceremonies!”

            “Because they turn me into a _sap_ ,” she protests, closing the fridge door in Jon’s flat (which, to be fair, is also Gendry’s, and in which Arya has become an increasingly common presence). “You can’t just have put in four years of work, done all your practical work, slaved over this, and then _not go to the ceremony_! Idiot!”

            “What’s this?” Gendry asks, en route to his bedroom from the bathroom, towel wrapped around his bottom half.

            “Jon wasn’t going to go to his graduation!”

            Gendry is appalled. “You’re the only one in this flat who’s been to university, and you’re gonna rob me of my chance to see you flounce across that stage in one of those square hats?”

            “I just said I didn’t _think_ I’d be going – _!_ ”

            “ – _Right_ ,” Arya is suddenly saying firmly, to somebody who isn’t there, her phone pressed to her ear. “So. Jon’s just said he’s probably not going to his graduation – ”

            The _what?!_ that Jon discerns even at this distance is unquestionably Sansa. _That’s ridiculous – why not?!_

            “Why not, Jon?!” Arya insists, pressing the speaker button and shoving her mobile in Jon’s direction.

            “It’s a two-show day!” Jon replies, deeply uncomfortable.

            _But we’re all going! It’s literally tomorrow! I don’t think you could, logistically, back out if you tried. It’s all planned! I’ve been baking! I’ve checked Google Maps for the fastest route through London and everything!_

            The three of them snort at that, and Sansa sighs down the phone.

            _Seriously, Jon, don’t skip out on graduation. That’s ludicrous._

            “She’s right,” Arya says.

            Gendry points a finger at this girlfriend to indicate agreement.

            (They _are_ right, of course. It’s the next day, and it’s a lovely occasion, and Arya cries again but so does Sansa, a little, and Robb wipes a teary eye at one point, too. Ned claps Jon on the back, Catelyn gives him the least awkward hug he has ever received from her, and Bran and Rickon hoot far louder than necessary when he crosses the stage to pick up his diploma. His aunt shows up, which is a nice gesture on her part, but Jon is glad to have the excuse of the theatre to disperse his graduation guests after they’ve completed their introductions and awkwardness threatens to engulf them all. En route to the theatre, he and Sansa split a few of the lemon cakes she baked him, and they laugh at the tension of the atmosphere.

            _Do you think she’ll buy you another car for graduating?_ Sansa asks.

            _I’d settle for a watch_ , Jon replies.)

*

The Starks en masse depart at the end of the week, and Sansa’s sure it’ll never get easier to say goodbye. They come to see her at the theatre, when she’s come in early to mend a tear in one of the handmaidens’ costumes.

            All she can think about is that Rickon’s set to tower over her by the time they’re reunited for certain at Christmas, and it’s Bran’s last summer as a secondary school student. She almost makes a joke about him joining them all down in London soon enough, but she knows he’s been eyeing up Philosophy at St. Andrew’s for years. It’s no loss, though – he’ll be an hour or so from Robb, and that’s what Sansa always wants most of all, really. Her family, _there_ for each other. She holds her father, mother, Bran, Rickon, close in turn, breathing them in.

            “Come up for a weekend, once the play’s done,” Catelyn says. “It’s only a train ride. We’ll pick you up from the station, just give us a call.”

            Previously, she wouldn’t have taken them up on it, but Sansa nods. “Of course. I’d love to.”

            “And say goodbye to Jon for us, won’t you, love?” Ned insists, some soft, genuine glint in his eye that Sansa’s never seen. “We’re always happy to see him, aren’t we, Cat?”

            “Yes, certainly,” Sansa’s mother replies, fiddling with Rickon’s crinkled collar, much to the boy’s dismay. “He’s a lovely young man.”

            (Sansa resolves to tell Jon that, sure he’ll faint with the honour of it all.)

*

Reviews start coming in, and Sansa reads each one with bated breath.

            They’re positive. Overwhelmingly so.

            She still breathes a sigh of relief each time.

*

Jon laughs at his phone screen as Sansa buckles up her seatbelt, heading probably for pizza and then deservedly home after another two-show day. “Tormund and Satin came to the matinee,” he explains.

            He reads her Satin’s message: “Jon, that was _fantastic_. So, so, _so_ good. Jaime Lannister is… _so_ beautiful, and Tormund says he wants to make babies with whoever put together the weaponry.”

            Sansa snorts. “Brienne’s probably the only person who could handle Tormund – though I don’t know she’d want to.”

            They share a laugh, and Jon adds, “Davos and Shireen came, too, last week – y’know – Gendry’s – ?” – Sansa nods, indicating that she’s familiar with Gendry’s foster family – “Yeah, they said it was fantastic – Shireen brought along her friend, Lyanna; they both loved it, apparently.”

            “Even with all the blood and gore?”

            “Davos said Shireen liked the story and Lyanna liked the swords.”

            Sansa considers it. “Catering for all audiences, then.”

            “Yeah,” Jon nods, “all varieties of teenage girl.”

*

Final night creeps up on them all. The hours that lead to the curtain going up one last time are bittersweet, as Sansa always expected them to be. She arrives at the theatre to a card and a bottle of wine from Margaery and Tyrion, a bouquet from Jaime, and a feeling of excitement that permeates everything, lodging itself in her gut.

            When Jon starts calling cues, it’s back to business – everyone revels in the tasks ahead of them, as it’s the last time they’re in this place, doing this thing, with these people.

            Sansa’s got tears in her eyes as she pins Jaime’s cloak in place for the last time, and in the few moments before he’s needed onstage, the man gives her arm a soothing squeeze. _Steady on_ , he murmurs, smile warm. _We can cry when it’s over._

            (She feels apart from herself, then. A year ago, she had hated this man, and everything he represented; it had poisoned her, insidious and deep. But they are both very different people to those the Court spat out. He is kind, now, to her, and he is caring. Perhaps, as she knows is the case for Tyrion, Jaime sees something of Myrcella in her. She no longer sees any of Joffrey in Jaime.)

            There’s catharsis in that. Sansa’s grateful for it.

            She finds herself moving closer and closer to Jon’s station as the company begin stepping out to take their last bows. Though he’s still buried in a headset and communicating with Bronn, Jon notices she’s there, on the edge of his periphery. Knowing what she needs, almost instinctually, Jon extends the hand closer to her for Sansa to take. His fingers interlock with hers as they watch the curtain call, and as it ends his gaze meets hers. There’s a beam shared between them, a wink from Jon, and then he turns back to the action – _Curtain on standby_ … _Curtain down._

            The thunderous applause continues far after the curtain’s hit the stage.

*

Tyrion struck up an agreement with the Highgarden staff to keep the bar open as long as possible after closing night. ( _People will want to drink and be merry_ , he insists, and then whispers to Sansa, _mostly me. This is a prime excuse to get absolutely, tragically drunk._ )

            It’s something of a formal occasion, with cast members donning frocks and trousers instead of the sweatpants and leggings most of them have taken to leaving the theatre in. Sansa, never one to shy away from an opportunity to dress up, delights in this – she seems to get a second wind of energy following the emotional exhaustion of finishing their run. It’s like she’s walking on sunshine, like she could go all night.

            She gets all the costume racks out of the wings, wheels them down into the required dressing rooms, then ducks into an empty one with Margaery and trades her theatre blacks for something similar, though much more flattering.

            “You look so hot that I’m not even annoyed you’ve adopted your boyfriend’s signature colour,” Margaery says, taking a moment to appraise Sansa in amongst adjustments to her own low-cut, light blue dress.

            “ _My boyfriend?_ ” Sansa echoes.

            “Jon.”

            “He’s not my boyfriend.”

            “He’s not _not_ your boyfriend.”

            Sansa, doing up the straps of her high heels, feels a blush coming on. Sure enough, one glance in the mirror verifies her cheeks match the strands of hair alongside them.

            “It’s been _months_ ,” Margaery groans. “I’m all for professionalism, but the show’s over now.”

            Sansa sighs, straightening up and taking a seat in front of the mirror, her makeup bag already waiting, opened, in front of her. She touches up what makeup she’s already wearing, adds some eyeshadow, a bit more mascara, pats a pigmented balm into her lips. She’s so aware of what still needs to be done – all those costumes to be folded up and bagged for commercial cleaning; the armour will have to be sorted separately, the mic belts collected. Sansa runs her hair through with her brush another time, quickly, and pulls the hair tie she’d been using during the show off her wrist.

            “I’m going to deal with the costumes,” she tells Margaery.

            The production manager sends her a glance that Sansa takes to mean Margaery doesn’t quite believe what she’s hearing. “Don’t have too much fun.”

*

When she gets to the now-emptied dressing room where she had instructed the actors to leave their costumes, she finds both the last and first person she’d expected to be there.

            “God, Jon, do you ever take a night off?”

            “I will when you do,” he says, not quite turning, and she can hear the grin in his voice that comes from the sound of hers. He’s changed clothes, too, but his formal dress shirt and trousers – even those shiny Oxford shoes – retain the dark hue that has become so synonymous with Jon Snow. (God, he’s handsome, though, always but especially with his curls free like they are now, and he’s scrubbed up so well – yet here he is, folding costume chainmail. Sansa takes a moment just to appreciate it. Handsome Jon – good Jon – _lovely_ Jon. Margaery’s voice echoes in her mind – _he’s not_ not _your boyfriend_.)

            (The moment’s cut short when he properly does turn around and lay eyes on her.)

            “Guess we’re both dressed for a funeral,” Sansa says, when Jon doesn’t seem to be able to find any words.

            “I think I’d start questioning a few things if you were looking that good at a funeral.”

            _Oh_. So perhaps he _can_ speak, then.

            “That’s a – I – I like that – bit there,” Jon manages to continue, gesturing to the detailing near the swoop of Sansa’s neckline. “Well, I mean, the whole thing’s phenomenal – _you’re_ phenomenal, really – ”

            She laughs. “Cheers, Jon. I like your hair like that.”

            He grins at her.

            They go about sorting all the costumes into their different categories – not just hand-wash and machine-wash now, but armour, cloth, and chainmail; shoes, mic belts, and all the rest. It’s only been a few minutes when Sansa gets to Jaime’s faux-bloodstained white cloak, and then it’s like everything that’s happened over the past few months rushes back to her at once.

            “I still can’t believe this show is _done_ ,” she bursts out gleefully. “I can’t believe we _did it!_ ”

            “ _You_ did it,” Jon says. “ _I_ helped a bit.”

            “You give me too much credit.”

            “I’d say the amount of credit I give you is perfectly accurate, thanks. Ask anyone – they’d tell you the same.”

            Sansa laughs.

            “Of course, it might not be the _exact_ same,” Jon admits, focused on folding the chainmail in front of him, “you’re bound to ask at least one person who’s not in love with you, but…”

            He moves as though to shrug, but Sansa stops short, cloak and all. Her heart’s in her stomach, and so – apparently – is everything else.

            Jon finds himself having received no response, and he pales in a way that informs Sansa his nonchalant routine has shattered into a thousand pieces.

            “I would’ve said something sooner,” he says, setting down the chainmail, his face earnest. “ _So much_ sooner – but with this show, and how much it means to you – and _all of us_ , but especially you – I didn’t want to do anything that might distract you, or – or something that, if it went south, would be to the detriment of this play – and…” He stops, eyebrows furrowed. “Sans, are… are you _laughing at me?!_ ”

            Sansa, with one hand pressed to her lips, shakes her head. She lets her hand fall and reassures him that _no_ , she is _not_ laughing at him. “Well – okay – maybe I am, a bit. Just because it’s so endearing!” She smiles. “So endearing, and so lovely, and so _you_.”

            She drops Jaime’s cloak into the corresponding bag and moves closer to Jon, coming to meet him, taking his hand.

            “Sansa, I – ”

            And she can’t stand that something in his face starts to look _ashamed_ , embarrassed – like there could ever be something wrong in letting her know he loves her – so she clasps the hand she’s holding tighter and steps closer, ever closer, and says, “Oh, Jon, honestly? I’ve probably been in love with you since year eleven.”

            And, for good measure, she kisses him, because they’ve been holding off long enough.

            (Sansa’s heard of a person’s life flashing before their eyes when they die, but she gets a montage of her own, just then – images of white winters at home, of being fifteen and tipsy on sweet wine, of Thai food, of a mane of dark curls disappearing around a corner with Robb, of a pair of hands adjoined in the sewing room a few doors down, of Jon’s fingers, years ago, interlocked with somebody _else_ ’s, and how that had hurt her without her ever quite understanding why, until now – which leads her back to where she is. To him.

            His lips are soft and his beard is rough and the way he holds her, firm and gentle, is a juxtaposition in itself; it leaves her wondering why she’d ever bothered kissing anyone else when she could’ve been kissing Jon. Harry had been out of her control, of course, but Joffrey was a mistake and a trauma that could have been altogether avoided by leaning towards the driver’s seat and kissing its occupant three years before she ever met the blond boy. A mistake of the past, that. Oh well. It’s a mistake she’ll spend the rest of her life rectifying, if Jon wants to let her.)

            Margaery’s voice comes over the tannoy and puts something of a damper on the moment. “Kindly asking all stragglers to get out front to the bar as soon as possible – Tyrion’s starting speeches in two minutes whether you’re ready or not.”

            Jon pulls back, still doing something of an absentminded tiptoe to compensate for her shoes, resting his forehead against Sansa’s. They giggle through weighted breaths, and then Jon says, “We should…”

            “We _should_ ,” Sansa agrees.

            She presses her lips to his again, quick enough not to be pulled in and lost in the languor of it (though Jon does try to reciprocate, leaning forward infinitesimally, almost of his own accord); she takes a step back, one hand in his. Jon doesn’t move.

            “Need a moment?” she jokes.

            He breathes out a laugh in response. “Maybe. I’ve wanted to do that for just about ever, y’know.”

            “Congratulations.”

            “Oh, shut up.”

            She tugs on his hand and they make to leave the room.

            “We’ll have to come back to this before Margaery sends it all off to a commercial cleaner,” Jon says. “There’s at least a rack left.”

            Sansa gives the fondest of eye rolls. “I’m heading home with you, so there’s no rush.”

*

The cast, crew, production team, and plus-ones have congregated in the large, open atrium of the theatre, everyone almost as glamorous as the architecture around them, wall of vines and roses and all. There’s upbeat music and plenty of cheer – Arya’s chortling at Gendry across the way, beyond where Loras and Renly are entertaining a crowd of chorus members with impressions of patrons they’d encountered during the night. Champagne fizzes in every hand, regardless of preference; there are rows of it along the bar, free for the taking throughout the toasts to come.

            Almost as soon as Jon and Sansa arrive, fingers still interlaced, Tyrion signals a start to the speeches. Jon ducks to the bar and returns with two filled flutes, one of which he hands to Sansa, who murmurs a quick thanks.

            Tyrion extends his congratulations to all of them, and uses his time to speak most especially to the cast. He’s said his thanks to the production team in his cards to them, after all – more intimate than a public word would ever be. He’s a gifted speaker, and can command any room, and so it’s no surprise he has them laughing and cheering and toasting by the end of the third sentence out of his mouth. However, Sansa _does_ want to speak to the backstage crew, to the production team, to everyone who has helped, and she uses the gap of applause after Tyrion’s speech to take the floor beside him and signal just that.

            “Obviously,” she begins, once she’s got everybody’s attention, “productions like this take a village, so I’d like to say a few words to the people who had a hand in making sure we actually had something to put on that stage.”

            She takes a moment, just a tiny one, a natural pause to collect her thoughts, and then forges on.

            “I want to thank Sam, for writing this phenomenal play in the first place, and then letting me try and carry out a plan that seemed just about built to fail. I want to thank Margaery, for ensuring it didn’t.”

            Margaery blows her a kiss with the hand not wrapped around a long flute of champagne. Sansa feels her heart swell. “Thank you for taking a chance on this, on us, on me. Tell your grandmother the same – wherever she is – is it Edinburgh, tonight, with _Purple Wedding_?” Margaery nods and Sansa nods back – “Brilliant. Thank you to Tyrion,” she says next, turning to the man beside her, nodding and raising her glass as though toasting, “for being at the helm of this whole show, for driving it forward, for working with the actors, the production team – for making a world of Sam’s words.”

            She turns back to the crowd, searching for the people she addresses next.

            “Thank you to Brienne, for being an absolute expert in your craft, for knowing more than I ever will about battle-wear and combat and props. Thank you to Robb and Arya, for agreeing to do something potentially illogical and ridiculous, and giving it everything you had – I’ll find a way to pay you back someday, I swear – ”

            Arya lets out a low, joking _Move out!_ which sends a ripple of laughter through everyone, including Sansa, who then continues –

            “Thanks to Jeyne and the Waif and Bronn, Pyp and Grenn and Yoren – your assistance across the board has been so valuable; thank you for lending us your expertise.”

            _Hear that, lads? We’re experts._

            _Put that on the CV, eh, mate._

            “Thank you, Edd, for doing everything that was asked of you and taking everything on board and being so earnestly interested and ready to help. Heathrow’s missing a legend, and I bet they’ll be glad to get you back.”

            Edd grins at her, nodding in gratitude, and Sansa barely sees it, but Jon’s beam, always for her, grows, too. Finally, she turns to him, that lovely boy, that perfect man.

            Sansa thinks there’s a kind of precious irony in spending her whole childhood imagining an escape to the city only to fall in love with a boy from home.

            (She almost tells everyone, right then and there. Instead, she locks eyes with him and lets her gaze confess the depth of it, while her mouth keeps things much simpler.)

            “And last, but not least, Jon – the man holding this whole thing together. Thanks for being a good sport, thanks for showing up early and leaving late; thanks for everything you’ve put into this show. They say air traffic controllers have it hardest of anyone, but I think it’s a miracle you’ve got a head of hair still intact after a month of cue-calling.”

            There’s a laugh around the room, a rolling rumble, and Jon’s mouth curls into that corners-down, eyes-on-the-floor, blushing smile that reminds Sansa of the relationship they’ve built but also of what they’ve always had, of how it started – really – when he was seventeen and she wasn’t as tall and they were both home. (Perhaps home means something different now. She’s been associating Jon with home for months, because thinking of him meant thinking of up north, but it hits her suddenly that geography’s got nothing to do with it.)

            When he says, _Thank you, Sansa_ , it’s almost lost in the warmth of the room.

***

Always more skilled with props than with people, Brienne had left Renly’s side at Loras’s arrival, and found herself shortly after – almost by accident – standing next to Jaime Lannister, which was a shock in itself. Sure he would have no idea who she was, and not caring much for small talk, she had made to leave. This departure was waylaid, however, by Jaime swiping a tall glass of champagne from a passing waiter, handing it immediately to her, and beginning to express the most ardent admiration for her crafting of swords.

            “I’ve fought with so many that are too heavy – or too obviously fake. Yours, though…” – he raises his glass to her – “they’re incredible. Balanced, with enough guts to feel real.”

            Brienne tries her best not to smile, and fails spectacularly. “Thank you very much. I’m glad somebody appreciates my work – and I’m glad it was of use to you.”

            She looks out across the atrium, cleared for a dance floor and lit to match. It’s a slow song, now – a beautiful one – for the night as it’s winding down. Robb Stark dances with his dark-haired girlfriend, swaying gently together as she leans her head against the curve of his neck. Arya and Gendry had abandoned their dancing upon hearing this song, almost on principle, firmly against sentimentality, but even as Arya sits on her barstool she’s resting back into her boyfriend, his arms wrapped around her from where he stands behind, moving with the melody.

            It’s Sansa dancing with Jon Snow that catches Brienne’s eye, though; out there, on the edge of it all – Sansa with one arm curved around Jon’s shoulders, as though to embrace him, her other hand interlaced with his. Jon’s free hand is placed in the small of Sansa’s back, and he uses it to pull her closer – he whispers in her ear and she laughs into some marriage between a nod and a shake of her head.

            Brienne tilts her champagne flute in their direction. “How long has _that_ been something?” she asks Jaime.

            He smiles. “Truthfully? I think it’s always been something.”


	9. epilogue

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**REVIEW: ICE, FIRE, AND A BLOODY GOOD TIME**

_M. Luwin_

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What do you get when you combine one of the London’s most profitable theatre companies, a playwright’s first professional script, a distinguished director, talented actors, and an amateur behind-the-scenes team? Well, it turns out, the theatrical event of the summer.

            Highgarden Theatre Company’s _A Song of Ice and Fire_ , written by Samwell Tarly, follows the dynastic wheel of power in an imagined medieval society not far removed from the one we know. Loosely based on the War of the Roses, and reinvented with the addition of magical creatures (alluded to, constantly present, but never directly seen, though their ferocity is perfectly captured in light and sound that flickers and flies across the stage and even out, beyond the proscenium), _A Song of Ice and Fire_ is a story of conflict and of character. Families are ripped apart, alliances struck up and cast down. This is a world of war, and no one knows how long they will last.

            Championing the cause is director Tyrion Lannister, a branch of the creative cohort that has dominated the Court Theatre for years. The master behind the Court’s critically-acclaimed _Blackwater_ , Lannister was the perfect director to take up the mantle on this project, and his true understanding of the subject matter is obvious. His arrangement of each scene is remarkable, with different areas of the audience seeing each character’s individual reactions to the unfolding events. The commitment by both director and cast to telling this otherworldly tale with authenticity shows.

            Crowd favourites Ashara Dayne and Myranda Royce deliver quality performances, the former in one of her most stunning displays of talent to date. Young Tyene Sand shows prowess beyond her years as Queen Naerys, acting out of type in a softer turn than recent roles have allowed her. The duty shown to her by veteran Jaime Lannister feels real, and there is enough similarity in their appearances to make the controversial – yet undeniably touching – relationship between the two believable.

            Indeed, it is Lannister who shines, perhaps more than anyone else, as Aemon the Dragonknight, in his first role since the accident that left him with a prosthetic hand. He is every bit the leading man, the hero caught in a struggle of lineage and promises that he cannot escape. The transition from a white Kingsguard cloak through to golden hues as the story progresses, as this legendary nature presents itself, is a masterful visual touch by costume designer Sansa Stark, a former Court intern who discovered Tarly’s script and who also acted as production designer and assistant director.

            In fact, it may be Stark who is most deserving of my high praise, as there seems to be little onstage to which her deft fingers have not lent their magic touch. The set design is pragmatic – immensely satisfying, but never showy. The costumes are, as previously mentioned, crafted with excellence. The light and sound, developed by Stark and actualised by a frequent collaborator of Tyrion Lannister’s, known professionally as Bronn, is out of this world. (The elusive inevitability of dragons overhead is more threatening, in this iteration, than any prop or costume could have ever been.) If this is the first professional credit under Stark’s belt – and it certainly is an ambitious one, though an indisputable triumph – one can only begin to wonder which production will see the benefit of her innate expertise next.

 _A Song of Ice and Fire_  provided the medieval fantasy epic that theatre has been missing, an instant classic unmatched in recent years. This unlikely tale of a ragtag assembly and countless professional debuts was a joy to behold. Exciting, emotional, and heartbreakingly ephemeral, _A Song of Ice and Fire_ is a standout for Highgarden and for contemporary London theatre. Absolute mastery. **_7/7_.**

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**_A Song of Ice and Fire_ ** _ran at Highgarden Theatre for the month of July. Tickets to the company’s next production, **Into Spring** , can be purchased via Ticketmaester or through the Highgarden box office now._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (a/n: I used Tyene's book description, not her show likeness. Also – I rounded it out in perhaps an unexpected way. If you were hoping for a bit more Jon and Sansa, or any of the rest of our faves, fear not. You'll see them again. Sort of. My darling @kattyshack can testify to that.)
> 
> This has been a load of fun! Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. x


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